In My Life
by tea and leaves
Summary: Blaine drops out of high school and moves to New York to be with Kurt, but when things go wrong, will they make it through or end up with nothing? Not originally written for Summer Klaine Week 2013…but it fits the "what would you change" category…so I thought I would post. Title inspired by the Beatles' song.
1. Surface

**Normally, I feel like descriptions take away from the magic of the story, but a little explanation might be nice on this one. This story loosely follows the plot of Season 4 (with scenes from **_**Glee, Actually **_**and **_**I Do, **_**for example.)**

**Here's where I veer wildly off course:**

**1. Blaine doesn't cheat on Kurt with Eli.**

**2. Blaine lives in New York with Kurt…which means he never suffers the indignity of an ill-fitting Cheerios uniform or poses as Sexy Santa (we all secretly, wincingly enjoyed that though, didn't we?) **

**3. Adam? Who's Adam?**

**4. And finally, Sebastian's back…and he's ready to tell his story. **

**If that sounds good…read on. This one's going to be LONG! **

**Oh, by the way – I do not own Glee.**

* * *

"I came to McKinley for Kurt. That's it. And now he's gone and even with Glee Club…I just…I feel really, really… alone."

I look down at the reprehensible red white and blue cake; it's part ice cream and it's melting, as we all are, due to the fact that Breadstix spends more money on rubber grapes than on air conditioning. Sam glances at the banner behind me which reads "Congralations Blan."

"Kinda killed my party buzz, bro," he informs me.

"Sorry, but I did all of this for him – all of this for him – and now he's not here."

It hurts that the one person who'd get me through this situation _is_ Kurt. It's not his fault. I get it. I do. He's talented and he deserves New York and Vogue and everything that goes along with that. But I miss him.

"It kind of feels like… none of it matters," I go on.

Sam shows off his teeth in disbelief. "Of course it matters. You're McKinley's first gay guy president!"

"Nobody cares about that."

"Look, before you, Kurt was the first gay guy I met. I mean, he's great, but do you think I get his Bravo jokes, or the fashion thing, or Broadway? You and me, it's different you know. Never had a gay _bro_ before," he goes on. "We're like Wolverine and Cyclops. You know, we show people we're cool with each other, and if you ask me, that's what matters."

"Thanks man. You're right." I get up and straighten my coat. "But just so we're clear…"

"—I'm Wolverine—"

"—I'm Wolverine—"

Our voices run over each and we laugh He's right. It does matter to show everyone that gay people are okay, that we're just one more layer in humanity, especially after what happened last year. Do I have the right to throw that opportunity away, just to be with my boyfriend? Kurt earned the right to leave; he made a real difference. Shouldn't I continue what he started?

I don't know. I turn around and walk into Brittany.

"Congratulations Blaine Warbler," she says, and then she slides into the booth next to Sam. The Barbie and Ken Pez Dispenser Set in the flesh.

* * *

I walk out of Breadstix into the muggy parking lot. United Airlines, $300, layover at O'Hare, then Newark, bus to the city, need to make at least $150,000 dollars a year combined …the figures keep popping up on the back of my eyelids like the ticker tape of a stock exchange. I've memorized what it would take to move to New York to be with Kurt. It's all I think about.

I know I laughed at Finn and Rachel for wanting to get married, for thinking they could recognize true love. But any love that you feel that's earnest, even if it impermanent…that's true love and it's worth chasing.

I sit in the car a long time before going inside. The light's on in the living room and my mother's milling around in a pink bathrobe. She has some white cosmetic product on her upper lip.

"The neighborhood is watching, Delores!" I can almost hear my father's voice. And I can almost hear her reply, "We're going to Cancun in a week, Gerald! I need to look my best!"

Coop says they're as bad as George's parents on _Seinfeld_. "Serenity Now!" is right.

I go inside and slump my bag onto the couch.

"Oh, baby, I'm sorry you didn't get it!" says Mom, coming towards me, arms outstretched.

"What? No. No, I did get it!"

"Really? You look crestfallen! Is it because that pixie boy's not here to celebrate it with you?"

"You mean that kid with the hair?" Dad cuts in, coming out of the kitchen with squeezable wasabi in one hand and a glass of citrus-flavored Miralax in the other. "I asked him to change a light bulb in my shop! You were in the shower so you couldn't do it, and he seemed real embarrassed, don't know why he was here in the first place, but he got that baby to light up!"

"When was that?" I ask, horror-stricken. Then I shake my head. "You know what, never mind. I'm happy, really. I got it. It's good."

"You should be proud!" Mom exclaims, dexterously wiping her lip with a washcloth. "You'll be real president one day! I mean, I never thought that a Hispanic would get in, but one got in!"

"Obama's Black, Mom…" Another quick shake of the head. "I think I'm going to bed."

"I made lasagna!"

"It's…eleven o clock."

"I'll schlep some onto a plate and give it the old nuke, and bring it up to your room."

"That's okay, really. I ate too much cake."

"Can't you see you're disappointing your mother?" calls Dad.

"Yeah, just send it up to my room, alright?"

Mom beams and tucks her graying strawberry blond hair behind her ear. "It's Stouffers!"

"That's good, mom."

I suddenly have to be alone. Some demon has its claws wrapped around my throat.

I hike up the stairs and my finger's connected with the 2 button before I even sit down.

"Blaine! Did you get it?"

"Kurt…"I breathe. "Yeah, I got it."

"How could you lose, I mean, your running mate was a hobo-turned-stripper-turned-politician! It's the American Dream!"

"Yeah," I laugh. "Exactly. They spelled my name wrong on the banner, though."

"Brittany," he sighs. "Hey, Blaine?"

"Yeah?"

I hold my breath. I shouldn't have called Kurt. I should have gone to bed and thought everything through. But of course I called him. Of course I went against my own advice.

"I'm really sorry about earlier. I-"

"Stouffers!" My mom bursts into the room. "Who's that?"

"Just, hold on-"

"Tell Pixie hello!"

Now he's panicking. "Who's Pixie? Blaine, are you there?"

"Thanks, Mom," I say quickly, accepting the plate.

"I put extra parmesan and I was thinking about grinding up parsley because it's an ancient breath remedy, but your father—"

"Mom, I'm on the phone."

She offers what she thinks is a cute, apologetic wave and backs out of the room. Her foot catches on the doorstop and the sound reverberates through the room.

"Kurt?"

"I'm here."

"Sorry. My mom's kind of ADHD."

"Sounds like it. Am I Pixie? That's worse than Porcelain."

"No, it's not."

"Anyway, I'm really sorry about talking over you and not picking up the phone. I don't…I don't even know why I acted like that. It's just – I love you – and I thought…I don't know what I thought – I—"

"I didn't call you to listen to you flog yourself."

"Oh." He sounds hopeful and worried. "Why did you call, then?"

"To hear your voice. And you already said what matters, anyway."

"What?"

"That you love me."

"Oh." He laughs. "Oh, thank God. I thought for a second—"

"Remember what you said?"

"I'm never leaving you?"

"That's right. And I'm never leaving you, either."

"I miss you so much right now. You know what happened tonight?" He lowers his voice to emphasize the scandal. "Rachel was having dinner with Brody, this uber-hottie from NYADA, and it got quiet, if you know what I mean, and then guess who showed?"

"No idea."

"Finn."

"Yikes."

"Yeah. Yikes. So Rach shuttled Brody out the back and let Finn in. The screaming's just now stopped."

"Are they breaking up?"

"I don't know," he says. "As much as I loathed Jesse St. James— he called me a pasty-faced ghost boy…and said I sing like a woman – I think that he and Rachel should have stayed together."

"Wait," I say slowly. "_Jesse St. James_?"

He laughs. "They should have! They're both selfish and arrogant and high-maintenance, but they're also both incredibly talented and driven."

"I'm the last person to say who should be with who, but what if they had children?"

"I had to take an anxiety pill for that thought," he says. Then he sighs. "So, Mr. President, what are you going to do to turn the economy around?"

"Not free pixie sticks, Pixie."

"Oh, cute. Are you eating something? I hear you eating something."

"Store-bought lasagna."

"How fratty. What else is going on?"

"Well, Brittany tried to shave her head, and then she beat up Jacob with an umbrella."

"Divine," laughs Kurt. "We all think our lives are so much more glamorous than they really are."

"Your life is glamorous, Pixie."

"You can't call me what your mom calls me, Blaine. It's very degrading."  
"Well, tell me what I should call you, because Kurty makes me think of cellulite."

"Oh, anything but Kurty."

"Puzzle piece is a bit long."

"You're sweet."

We don't speak for a moment and I shift the mostly-uneaten plate of lasagna onto the radiator.

"You know, I looked it up," I say. "You are exactly 591 miles away from me right now."

He laughs and breaks into song. "_When I wake up, well I know I'm gonna be, I'm gonna be the man who wakes up next to you_. _When I go out-"_

"No, God, Kurt, just no."

"I hate that song too, but I would. I would walk 500 miles."

"You couldn't walk 500 miles. You couldn't walk five miles."  
We talk for a few more minutes before deciding to go to bed. Kurt says he'll try to sleep through the silent but palpable self-loathing in the next room. I tell him I'll try to sleep, knowing the lasagna is radioactive and will turn into Swamp Thing during the night.

I regret getting off the phone with him immediately, and then I stare at the display while I'm trying to fall asleep. Could we just leave the lines open all night?

45 minutes of futile staring proves enough for me. I get up and splash water on my face, then jog downstairs and stand in front of the refrigerator. I know I box, and I kissed Rachel Berry once, and am not so obviously gay as Kurt, but I'm quickly becoming a food snob like him. Velveeta? God, really? I thought that got banned or something, like Twinkies. And is that Slim Fast? Let's just all admit that carrageenan is not the way to go when trying to thicken a diet beverage. Scratch that. Diet beverages themselves are not the way to go.

I settle for a packaged salad that Mom got at Costco. I think about how Kurt's campaign platform involved getting a salad bar in the school cafeteria. Then I pull out my laptop and start researching plane tickets again.  
Decisions almost always creep up on me, so once again, I'm convicted about something without thinking about it as much as I should. That's worked out both really well and very badly in the past, but I wouldn't be where I am without flash decisions.

I, Blaine Anderson, have decided to drop out of McKinley and move to New York City.

* * *

"Oh look, it's Dowdy McGay."Sue looks up from her calendar. "You know what, Gay Anderson? When I was in third grade, a virgin to the high pony, my teacher made me look into a great jar of jelly beans and guess how many were inside."

"Yeah…?"

"Well, the student body is about to do the same with you. Yes Blaine, like a female frog on dissection day, your lady fabulousness will be exposed to the world. I've started a betting pool. How many bowties does one Blaine Anderson actually own? Closest guess wins a dinner for one at Breadstix."

"Are we done now?"

"Absolutely. What's your Sue Sylvester-related need, Manicure Boy?"

"I wanted to ask your advice about something. You're…really abrasive…but you're honest. I'm dropping out to be with Kurt."

"Oh, Hot Porcelain." She straightens the collar of her green tracksuit and rubs her lips together. "You want my honest opinion? Here it is. You'll drop out and move to New York and you'll be over the smiling, Fedora-wearing moon for about five seconds, and then he'll find a much more appropriate partner and he'll leave you to open a professional skin care parlor in Madagascar with his new squeeze. You, on the other hand, will be left paying for a New York apartment and dealing with the gnome-sized bag of estrogen that is Rachel Berry, all by your lonesome self."

"No, you don't get it. I _am_ doing this. I wanted your advice on how to _get_ there."

"Ah, you're eyeing my Sky Miles, aren't you?"

"Never mind. I don't know what I was thinking."

I start to get up but she says, "Hold up, Glory Boy. I liked Porcelain. Liked him a lot, and I guess I at least have to tolerate you. I'll give you the full Sue Sylvester Treatment. Those Sky Miles I accumulated from my secret liaisons with Dan Quayle? All yours, Princess Warbler."

"Great. Thank you. But I was wondering if you could give me some, just, advice?"

"Trust no one. Never say 'bomb' in a public place. And once you master the agility course down at the dog park, you'll be able to navigate a subway station. Privately, I admire your newfound rebellious attitude, Twinbrows. You would have made a much more convincing Tony, had you done something like this earlier. Now get out of my office."

* * *

The bell rings and I collapse into my seat in the choir room.

"Glee Club!" shouts Mr. Shue, holding up a Madonna record.

"No," Artie says flatly. "No Madonna 2.0."

"Definitely not," chips in Tina.

"C'mon, guys! We missed out on so many great songs last time. We—"

"Mr. Shue?" I speak up. "I have an announcement."

He sets the record down reluctantly and nods. I take a breath and stare at the gritty floor. No, I can't look at the floor. I have to be proud of this. I can't resent Kurt.

"I am moving to New York to be with Kurt."

Everyone stares momentarily. Then Sam pipes up.

"Now?" he asks. "It's the beginning of your senior year, man! We talked about this!"

"My senior year is going to suck without Kurt. I'd rather have no senior year at all."

"Blaine, this is a serious decision," says Mr. Shue. "Have you really thought about what this could mean for your future?"

"Do you know how many actors dropped out of high school and still became wildly successful? Robert De Niro, Quentin Tarantino, Al Pacino? Marlon Brando!"

"But you aren't dropping out to become an actor," Tina says quietly. "You're dropping out because of someone else."

"I…I love him."

More silence. Then Sam says, "Do it. That's what I say. Do it."

"It's a big decision," Shuester says, taking the enthusiasm out of the room like an air duct. He claps me on the shoulder. "Maybe you should talk to Emma."

* * *

Emma hands me a pamphlet. _Oh No, I'm Lactating! _

I hand it back. "Wrong one."

"Oh. Here."

She hands me another one. _Apocalypse 101: The Smart Guide to Dropping Out._

"As I high school counselor, Blaine, I am against this. But as a friend, and knowing how you and Kurt are, I can't really discourage you. So instead of giving you _So You Want to Ruin Your Life, _I gave you that one. It gives some really good suggestions." She takes a sip of tea. "Are you planning on college?"

"Maybe. I'll have to see how I feel."

"Okay," she says hesitantly. "I think at this point, your best option would be community college. Does that sound like a step backward?"

"Miss Pillsbury, I'm not really like the others. I don't need NYADA or Vogue. I just need to be in a place that fits. And Kurt, New York, that _fits_. I don't care what I'm doing while I'm there."

"I'm just worried you'll feel useless if you have nothing to do. You want to support each other. It can't be one sided."

"It'll be all right, Miss Pillsbury."

She smiles primly and folds her hands. "Then, congratulations."

* * *

The braised duck, complete with candied apricots, looks me right in the eye.

"You really didn't have to do this, Mrs. Hummel."

"You said you needed to talk to Burt!"

"A cup of coffee would have been fine. But everything looks great. Thanks."

"Kurt told me you were Scandinavian—"

"—I don't know if that's true—"

"—so I made these Scandinavian almond cookies—"

"—personally I think I look more Gaelic—"

"—and I was going to make fish, too, but Burt said no—"

I sit down at the table and lace my fingers together. "How are you, Mrs. Hummel?"

"What? Oh! I'm good. I bet you miss poor Kurt as much as we do."

"You have no idea."

She pours a cup of coffee. "What do you take in your coffee?"

I smile again, but it's a different kind of smile. Kurt always knew my coffee order.

"Whatever you have."

She fixes it for me, hands it over and says quietly, "It's Coffee Mate. Since Kurt left, there's been no need for local, grass-fed cream."

"Just like home. Thanks."

Burt's voice echoes from the door, finally home from work. "Carole? Smells good!"

"Thanks! Blaine is here!"

Burt enters the kitchen and replaces one plaid shirt with another hanging where most people keep dish clothes. Then he turns and smiles at me.

"What's up?"

"No, Burt!" scolds Carole. "I made dinner! Sit down and talk that way!"

"Well, no one's pregnant, we know that. How serious you think this is Carole?"

"I'm moving to New York."

Burt turns and looks at me squarely. "New York?"

"I want to be with Kurt."

Burt sits down, lifts up his ball cap to wipe his forehead, then claps it back down.

"Wow," he says quietly after a minute. "I didn't know you were that serious about each other. I just figured that since you were the only ones playing for the same team in Glee Club…I thought it'd fizzle at graduation. Wow. Well, I'll be darned."

Carol beams and hugs me. "Honey, that's wonderful! End of the year?"

I break away and look at her softly-lined face. "Um, now, actually." I glance at Burt, expecting uncertainty, but he's actually choked up.

"Good. You're good for him. That thing you told him about courage? Well, I once told Will Shuester that Glee Club saved Kurt's life. You were a big part of that."

"Wow, thank you, Burt."

"Call me Dad. Sounds like we're about to be almost family."

I walk home from Kurt's after dinner. We don't live far apart and the humidity's hovering around fifty percent, so I think the velvet brocade jacket will survive. I take long, deep breaths and watch my shadow in the yellow streetlight. There's no other word to describe what I'm feeling other than thankful. Yeah, life's hard. We all have our battles and we all lose some of them, but I believe everything fits together. If Kurt hadn't been bullied, I never would have met him; if I hadn't been rock-salt-slushied in the eyes, Karofsky wouldn't have recovered. Karma, balance, whatever you call it, something's at play.

Kurt and I walked this route a few times after I transferred. A lot of people say I deserve better than Kurt. I say there is no one better than Kurt. He's bright, attentive, smart , funny, talented, attractive, sensitive. Nobody's perfect, but he's my perfect. I was good for him? I hope so, but I know he was good for me. When I transferred to Dalton after the Sadie Hawkins incident, suddenly, my sexuality didn't matter. No more bullying, but not a whole lot of exploration either. Then I met Kurt and everything changed. I found an outlet – someone else who had lived through the kind of firestorm I did before Dalton. For all the good advice I gave, he was the real mentor. I might have seemed impressive and intimidating to him, openly gay and still the lead singer, but he's the bravest person I've ever met and I love him more than I can stand.

When I get home, I let my parents know. Dad informs me people might think I'm gay. Oh-_oh_, really? That's news! Mom just says, "Oh well. You'll miss Cancun."

I go upstairs and buy my ticket. Just…grinning. The whole time. Just grinning. It's not about a future. It's not about a life together. It's about right now, because right now is the only thing that matters. We can all plan and freak out as much as we want, but plans fail, bridges fall, role models break down, life ends. What I feel right now is more important than anything I may or may not feel in the future, and right now, I feel Kurt. He still moves me.


	2. Paint

**This here is what happens when you watch too much Breaking Bad and then try to write a Glee fanfic. Anyway, tell me if you like Kurt's perspective!**

* * *

"I can't believe I was that selfish and stupid and insecure," says Rachel, clutching a gold throw pillow, mask dried out and cracking on her face. "I can't believe I-"

"Rach. We've talked about this for two hours."

"Well, I, I can't get it out of my mind, Kurt!"

"That's what guilt is. The guy I texted a few times? Blaine practically snorted fire. It's a big deal."

"Kurt, you're supposed to be supportive!"

"You made out with another guy, like, immediately, Rachel! You were going to _marry_ Finn."

"Brody's New York and Finn's Lima and I, I-"

"You should have realized that before telling him you'd marry him."

"Why are you being so hard on me?"

I look at the shiny exterior of my phone, press a button so the background – me and Blaine – pops up. "I'm tired," I tell her, eyes stuck to the phone. "I'm going to bed."

I peel a flake of mask off my own face and stare at its silhouette. Then I look around the apartment. The last fragments of Rachel and Brody's dinner are still visible; everything still smells like fire extinguisher fluid; the glass Finn broke is still on the floor.

"We'll figure it all out tomorrow, Rachel. You, Brody…the color of these walls! I just noticed! Who decided to even manufacture that color? What is it? Ghost of mauve? It's the color of a Weimaraner! God…" I pick up the phone and click a picture of the evil color to text to Blaine.

**Good color for a morgue, am I right? Hello new paint! ASAP!**

Rachel says something, but I'm still staring at the phone, hoping in vain.

"Night," I say, walking out of the room, still inattentive. "It'll work out. I promise."

I set the phone on the bathroom counter, pick through toners in the cupboard and bend down to open a new package of soap. Beep! I scramble to pick up the phone and whack my head on the open cupboard upon reentry.

**Pea green. For a baby's room. Beat that.**

**You're still up! Your parents gave you a pea green baby room?**

**Yeah. Maybe that's why I'm a geriatric at age 18.**

**Shut up, Blaine. You could be on the cover of GQ. Whereas I could only delicately and perfectly adorn the pages of Mother Goose.**

**We complement each other.**

A pause.

***Complete* each other.**

I breathe out quickly and then I'm crying. I underestimated what being away from Blaine would mean. After a night like tonight, all I want is to rest my head on his chest and fall asleep, knowing I won't be alone in the morning. But I will be alone in the morning. I text back, wobbly with exhaustion and emotion. I'm already on the edge of surrender. It's not even Thanksgiving.

**Miss you SO much. Love you.**

**Love you too. Good night?**

**More like good morning. But…good night.**

**Good night.**

The phone goes black. I look into the mirror. Even in the dim light, I can see the tear tracks in the avocado mask.

* * *

Rachel and I clean up in the morning. She cries while she vacuums. I yawn while I collect shards of glass and put them in a paper bag.

"If you would like my opinion, I don't think you and Finn were really meant for each other. You're an uptown girl and he's a farm boy. Oil and water."

"Don't you tell me who's meant for each other, Kurt Hummel!" she shouts over the vacuum, which is presently reeling in yards of dental floss. "There's whole _laws_ that are designed to keep you from being with the person you love!"

"It's not a social issue, Rachel! You two have never worked together, and I mean, Blaine and I have had our problems, but you and Finn are always on a tightrope!"

"That's the artist's life, Kurt!"

I lean on a broomstick and just as I question why I'm wearing a cashmere cardigan while cleaning up, the vacuum shivers.

"Uh…Rachel?"

"And another thing is, he said he would come to New York! Instead, he got stuck on the stupid thing with his father! The army? What is _wrong_ with him? He'd rather die than be with me, apparently!"

"Rachel!"

"What?"

The vacuum shudders and the empty floss container clunks on the beater bar. Everything goes still and silent for a minute. And then flames rocket up the handle.

"Whoa no!" screams Rachel. "Oh not again!"

Twenty minutes and two fire extinguishers later, Rachel's sobbing on my shoulder. I stare at the melted, fuming ruin that is the vacuum cleaner, at the white fire extinguisher foam on the armchair, at my sweater which looks like it was eaten by ants.

"What have I done? What have I done, Kurt?"

"You've followed your dreams, Rach, and love," I pause and smile musingly, "love comes at much too high a cost."

"I don't feel like I'm defying gravity," she says in thick voice. "Defying gravity would be balancing my art and my relationship."

"Sometimes balance means giving something up. Maybe you and Finn aren't incompatible, but your situations definitely are. He's my brother and I love him, but he's not a star like you are, Rach. Remember how you felt singing in the Gershwin Theater? Close your eyes and remember that feeling."

She breathes deeply and closes her eyes.

"Now remember how you felt alone with Finn, on a Thursday night…the fire is low and it's raining…and he's you telling some story about athlete's foot…"

She laughs quietly.

"Which makes you feel better?"

"They both make me feel so…alive…but I admit, I never feel like I'm losing when I'm performing, and I feel like I'm losing when I'm with Finn. Does that make me vain and selfish and worthless? Am I just a support system for these admittedly fabulous vocal chords?"

My eyes center in on a water stain on the wall. It's morning. I drank coffee. I still feel exhausted. And I'm the world's biggest hypocrite. How can I ask Rachel to choose between her dreams and who she loves? Half of me feels like a frog that got run over, desiccated on the asphalt. I miss attention. The other half of me feels like it's on fire. Given recent events, never mind. The other half feels…over-oxygenated, weightless. I'm succeeding at what I love.

"It's the biggest challenge in life," I say gently. "You're not meant to choose. You're meant to struggle. Which love do I love more? It's what defines people."

"I wish Finn could be happy here for _him_. I wish we could be together without being together _for_ each other."

"Like they say…true love has a way of working out. You have to let it fly away and if it comes back, well, that's the real test."

"Are you going to go back to Lima, Kurt?"

I look down and set my jaw. "No. I'm never going back to Lima."

By eleven 'o clock, Rachel and I break down and call a maid. Then we go out for lunch in the park. I feel like I'm in a smoke-filled crystal ball. Rachel and I both have red eyes. We've both been crying a lot lately. If anyone asks, which no one ever would in New York, we'll say we're both high. That's better than sad.

"What do you call this sauce?" she asks, holding up her gyro to get a better look.

"Tzatziki. It's cucumber sauce."

"Is it vegetarian?"

"I...think so."

"Kurt! Why didn't you make sure?"

"It won't kill you, Rachel!"

"When did you get so irritable?" she grouches, taking a tentative bite. "You're not the one with problems right now."

"I miss Blaine."

"At least he still loves you. Finn's going to put my head on a spike."

"Rachel, from this moment forward, the word _Finn_ is not in your vocabulary. Twenty-four hour pact. Deal?"

"I guess."

"Swear on it. Repeat after me. I, Rachel Berry, swear on the good health of my voice that I will not mention or allude to Finn Hudson out loud until this time tomorrow."

"I, Rachel Berry, swear on the good health of my voice that I will not mention or allude to Finn Hudson out loud until this time tomorrow."

"Great. Now let's figure out how to get to Home Depot."

"What? Why?"

"We're painting the apartment!"

"Yes! That's a brilliant idea, Kurt! But I at least have to call the landlord."

She gets out her phone and starts to dial.

"Let me," I whisper as it rings. "You offend people!"

"Yes, hello Ms. Gold!"

I frantically press my ear to the other side of the phone.

"Who is speaking?"

"Rachel Berry, your tenant!"

"Ah. Ms. Berry. If the showerhead broke again, you should call-"

"No, it's better! We're painting the apartment!"

"No, Ms. Berry, you can't do that."

"Why not? It's such an ugly apartment, truly, Ms. Gold, and I would love to improve-"

I wrench the phone from Rachel's hand.

"Ms. Gold? My apologies. This is Kurt Hummel speaking. I work for Vogue, and what my friend is asking is actually a wonderful opportunity. We will increase the value of the apartment tremendously by redecorating it. If you would like my credentials, you can call Isabelle Wright."

"I'm sorry, but it's against policy. Thank you for calling."

The sound of dead air climbs down my ear canal. I hand the phone back.

"Well," I say, "I think it's time for a little renovation rebellion."

"Kurt, we'll get fined!"

"Not when she sees what the apartment looks like."

* * *

Rachel moves her fingers over the cerulean paint sample. It's the exact color of Finn's eyes. She doesn't say anything, but she pockets it. Then she grabs a few hazelnut neutrals to show me.

"Is this what you meant?" she asks.

I survey what she picked, but they're not powerful enough. "No. Try one with more…intensity. This is an accent color we're talking about."

I start searching through the creams and Rachel kneels to seek out a darker color.

"What color scheme are you going for?"

"Coffee," I tell her. "Rich but light. If we paint the whole thing dark, it'll seem even smaller, which would basically be equatable to living in a hatbox." I pull a paint sample and address it. "Hello _almond rhapsody_." I bag it and move onto the plums.

By the time we're through, Home Depot has requested that we pay a $15.00 fee, due to the fact that we pulled over 200 cards. While Rachel argues, three teenagers, skinny-as-matchsticks, all wearing hoodies, come up to me.

"Hey?" says one, a redhead with a pulsing vein on his temple. "Borrow your phone?"

I glance at Rachel, but she's become a lioness; she's sunk her teeth into that $15.00 fee, and she's not letting go.

"Yeah," I say, trying to sound bright. I hand him my phone. "Sure."

He slides it open and laughs. "Look at this, mo fos! He's a fag!"

His friends knock their elbows into each other, eyes flashing up at me. Rachel's eyes are now fixed on the untenable air between us. I look down and feel myself go poppy red.

"If you're going to make a call-"

"What?" asks the redhead, turning the phone around and pointing at the picture of Blaine and me. "You don't think it's funny? I think it's funny! It's your boyfriend, isn't it? Anyone ever tell you he's too good for you, you stupid little cub?" My stomach twists. He turns the phone back to show his friends again. "Isn't he too good for him?"

I meet their eyes, trying not to lose my composure. "Give me my phone back, please."

"You gonna fucking cry? Oh, hold me, boys! We made another douchebag see the sweet truth!"

I look down again and my body twitches in anger. Then, like a spring, my fist connects with his jaw. I gasp and clap my hands over my mouth, and he slowly pulls his thumb across the blood running over his lips. Then he hands my phone back gingerly.

"I'm sorry," I gulp. "I-"

He punches me straight on and I fall onto the tiled floor. His two friends pull me up and pin my arms. Rachel's screaming. The clerk's calling someone for help. I'm slipping out of awareness.

"Fuck you!" Another punch. "Fuck you!" Another, and another, and another. Then they let me go. I fall on my knees and watch through swollen eyes as the man and his friends sprint out of the sliding doors. Rachel kneels in front of me.

"Oh my God! Oh my God, Kurt!"

She brushes my hair out of my face and gently presses her fingers to my nose. It's not until this moment that I register pain; it shoots down every nerve in my body; my chest tightens and my pulse hits its maximum; I feel like I've been torn in half.

"Son, are you alright?" asks a security guard, also kneeling.

I can't answer. I can't form words. My brain feels dull and heavy, like I'm about to black out.

The last thing I hear is Rachel screaming, "Get him to a hospital! GET HIM TO A HOSPITAL!"


	3. Hit and Run

Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. I set the last bowtie on my bed. One Blaine Anderson owns exactly seventeen bowties, and one Blaine Anderson will be the recipient of a dinner for one at Breadstix. Like taking candy from a baby.

I slide all the ties into a basket and push them under the bed, then collapse in a chair with my calculus textbook on my lap. I open it to the dog-eared page on asymptotes, and then remember that I'm dropping out. I glance at the various magazines on the table next to me, fingers hovering over them in indecision. I'm about to commit to Rolling Stone when my phone rings. It's Rachel. I ignore it and start in on an article. She calls again. I ignore it again. Then she texts me and a big red exclamation point floats up on my screen, letting me know she's tagged it as urgent.

**KURT'S IN THE HOSPITAL.**

My mouth goes dry. Not Kurt. Not at this point.

I stay still, fixated on Rachel's text for a minute, then shoot out of my chair, grab my coat and run downstairs.

"Where are you going?" asks my mother as I try to get my arm in my coat sleeve. "You can't leave! You said you would fix the water heater!"

"I'll be back!" I shout, going out the door.

I get in my car, dial Rachel and start driving towards Hummel Automotive.

"Rachel?! What happened?! Is he—"

"He has something they call intraclavial, intracravian-"

"Intracranial pressure," says a slow, muffled voice. "Don't give him a heart attack. I'm fine."

"Is that him? Let me talk to him!"

"I really don't think—"

"Put him on the phone, Rachel!"

There's a crunching sound as she transfers the phone, an little gasp of pain, and then…"Blaine? That you?"

"Kurt? Are you all right? Does Burt know? I'm driving to the shop right now but I'll stop if-"

"Slow down. I'm fine."

"You aren't fine!" Rachel cries in the background. "Your brain is about to explode!"

"I have a concussion and slight intracranial pressure," he says evenly. "They said I'll be fine."

"What happened?" I swerve to avoid another car, almost nick a bicyclist and screech to a stop at a red light. "Are you in the ER? Did they admit you? Do you need me to—?"

"Blaine. Slow down."

I exhale and watch my white knuckles on the steering wheel. "Okay. Alright."

"I was in the ER, but they decided to keep me overnight. I fell down the stairs at the apartment. And no, my dad doesn't know. I'll call him."

"Okay. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Other than my vasovagal trypanophobia, everything's fine."

Vasovagal trypanophobia? I open up the web and look it up. Fear of needles that causes fainting. I grin.

"You fainted because of a needle?" I ask.

"Twice," he says. "And when—"

A car behind me beeps. I jump and jam my foot to the pedal.

"Sorry to interrupt, but I'm going to get in an accident. I'm driving. And as much as I'd like to be in a hospital bed next to you…"

"I've already seen you in a hospital bed one more time than I wanted to." He makes a reflective humming sound. "I think about that all the time. You took a bullet for me. It was very romantic."

"And the eye patch was sexy, right?"

"I wish you'd wear one every day. Aren't you supposed to be getting off the phone?"

"Yes. Call me later?"

"What do you think? I call you every night."

I get off the phone and pull into the Lima Bean, order coffee for me and Burt, and then drive to Hummel Automotive. When I get there, Burt's on the phone, probably with Kurt, so I sit on one of the benches in the waiting room.

"Blaine?"

I turn around and see Finn, dressed in a mechanic's jumpsuit, holding a wrench.

"Finn! Hey! I thought you were in New York."

"I got in this morning. I, uh, needed some time. I thought this was a good place. Kurt might have told you what happened."

"He did. I'm on your side. Sit down. Talk to me."

"I'm on the clock." He glances at Burt, who's face is scrunched up with worry, and takes a seat next to me. "But I think I can escape notice a few minutes."

"I happen to know that'll take a while," I say, gesturing at Burt. "Kurt fell down the stairs at his apartment this morning and got a concussion. He's at the hospital."  
"Jeez. You all right?"

"He sounds like he'll pull through," I say tightly, sipping my coffee. "I wish I was there."

"If what everyone's saying is true, it won't be long. Dropping out?"

I drum on the lid of my coffee and smile slightly. "I'm not good at being alone, I guess. Oh, by the way, you can't tell Rachel. I'm going to surprise Kurt."

"I don't think I'll be talking to Rachel for a while. I don't know if you have any advice…?"

I meet his eyes and shake my head. "All I can say is give it time. Or don't. Make a clean break." I glance up to check on Burt, but he's still engrossed. "Can I be honest?"

"'Course"

"I've always wondered about you and Rach. You don't seem all that aligned, and that's not to say you don't love each other, but…unless one of you, meaning you, is willing to be flexible, is willing to give a lot up…I'm not sure how well it can work. Kurt's sensitive, but Rachel's astronomically sensitive, and you need to really, really love her. You have to be sure she's the only person you could ever feel that strongly about. It's kind of like falling in love with someone who's schizophrenic. She's that high-maintenance."

Finn looks at his feet and nods slowly. "I want to say that…that I am sure. But I'm not sure. I'm not sure at all. I think we might be better off alone." He smiles. "Never thought I would say it, but I'm jealous of Kurt."

"Brothers," I say wistfully, and he cracks up.

"What?" I ask.

"You don't remember, do you? That time you got drunk and kissed Rachel, you went on and on about _brothers_. You grabbed me in a bear hug and talked about me and Kurt being _brothers_ and how incredible that was." He grins. "And Kurt didn't have a sip of anything all night. He said he was trying to impress you. And there you were, absolutely plastered, dancing in this freaky, spastic way and kissing girls and singing _Don't You Want Me._"

"I'm still embarrassed."

"No, it's fine. Everyone else was drunk, too. Except Kurt."

I rub my eyes and laugh. "Kurt's so dedicated. We weren't even together, and he managed to get me in his car and drive me to his place for the night, and I fell asleep on his bed and Burt found me and…that whole week was just a big sexual mess. I had this conversation with Kurt that was the most awkward conversation I've ever had in my life, with the exception of the conversation I had with his father a little while later, and then it just…it just ended so perfectly."

"How did it end?"

"Well," I say quietly, actually a little bit flushed, "The Dalton parakeet died, and Kurt was heartbroken about it, but it was the first time that we really understood each other."

I look up and notice Burt hanging up the phone. I motion to Finn, who jumps up and goes back into the garage. Burt doesn't miss this, but he just smiles sadly and turns his attention to me.

"Don't worry. I'm not here for a carburetor."

Burt laughs good-naturedly.

"I got you a coffee," I go on, handing it to him. "It's a nonfat white chocolate raspberry mocha with half the raspberry and twice the chocolate, with whipped cream and chocolate syrup on top, two straws and I had it double cupped. It's what I get when something goes wrong or I'm sad about something."

Burt holds up his hand. "I lost you at white chocolate. I'm sure it'll be fine. Thanks."

"You heard about Kurt, right?"

"Yeah. He's tougher than he looks, though."

I smile. "He's a got a good attitude."

"You're just here to drop off coffee?"

"Yeah. I…panicked when I heard about Kurt. Ran out of the house and ended up at the Lima Bean and then here."

"Well, back to the grindstone," says Burt. "Thanks again for the coffee."

On my way out, I run into Finn again. He holds me back for a second and says, "Hey, thanks for what you said, about being aligned. I never thought about relationships that way before and I think it's going to help me figure things out with Rachel."

I shrug. "It's important to find someone that fits you. If you don't, you end up resentful and you feel like you wasted time."

"You gay guys sure have it figured out better than us straight guys."

I lean in and say, "It's a secret, so be careful, but have you heard that straight guys are idiots?"

He laughs. "I have, actually. See you around."

* * *

"Why did you tell him that, Kurt?"

"I have brain swelling and you're making it worse," I mumble, sipping on some orange juice and pressing the button on my morphine box, which I maxed out a long time ago. I sink back into the black, writhing well I was previously occupying.

"Are you worried he'll think you're weak? He won't! He loves you! This is what lovers talk about, Kurt. The pain of being misunderstood. It's everything!"

"Please stop talking, Rach. You're my bestie, but I'm about to rip your throat out."

She folds her arms and looks long at me. Then she smiles too understandingly and walks out of the room. I turn on my side and let tears slide silently down my face. People say that physical abuse is better than verbal abuse. I don't agree. Physical abuse almost never comes without verbal abuse, and at least name-calling doesn't leave a mark you have to see in the mirror every day. These bruises brand me as inadequate, defenseless, laughable. I'm nothing more than a canvas for my shortcomings.

It's been two days since the incident. I've organized the paint samples into groups and have started to pin them to the walls. One wall in the living room has so many that it looks like an art project from the Village.

My face looks better and Rach says my eyes are brighter. I don't feel like my eyes are brighter, unless it's from all the crying. I've never ached like this before.

I feel like the villain. I feel like I'm trapping Blaine in a relationship he's too good for. And the worst part is, I'm too much of a coward to talk to him about it. What if it's true? What if I'm a squeaky wheel he's tired of being held back by?

I couldn't face that. I couldn't face losing Blaine. I have nothing without him. I'm unexceptional.

I try not to think about any of it too much, but it's pointless; every time I move, it hurts, and the physical pain refreshes the emotional pain; every time I talk to Blaine, I lie; every time I see my reflection, I want to break the mirror. I don't deserve someone like Blaine. I don't deserve Vogue, or New York, or even Rachel. I don't know if I deserve to live. If everyone hates me so much, why should I be on this planet? Do I fill the role that the stuffed rabbit fills at greyhound races? If that's the case, I want the race to end sooner rather than later.

The afternoon passes in waves. I'm calm while I keep my hands busy, but when that fades, my heart rate climbs until breathing feels like the most alien thing in the world; at that point, I usually throw up, and after lying on the bathroom floor for a while, I get up and find another project to keep my hands busy with. The cycle repeats. I get weaker and weaker and end up collapsing on the couch, unable to fall asleep but also unable to get up. I nestle against the pillows. It's all I can do to pick up my phone, hold it close to my heart and stare at the door in fear.


	4. Blackbird

I walk into the choir room, and though it's morning, it's dark; the windows have been covered and there is a single spotlight in the center of the floor. Unique and Tina step next to it, smile, and start to sing Elton John's _Friends Never Say Goodbye_.

"_There isn't much I haven't shared with you along the road; and through it all there'd always be tomorrow's episode_."

Marley steps up, also just outside the spotlight.

"_Suddenly that isn't true; there's another avenue; beckoning the great divide; ask no questions, take no sides_."

Jake, Brittany, Artie and Sam's voices blend in.

"_Who's to say who's right or wrong; whose course is braver run; still we are, have ever been, will ever be as one_."

And then, Finn steps into the spotlight and everyone hums the melody while he sings.

"_What is done has been done for the best; though the mist in my eyes might suggest, just a little confusion about what I'll lose; but if I started over, I know I would choose the same joy, the same sadness each step of the way; that fought me and taught me that friends never say—_"

And then everyone, even Mr. Shue and Ms. Pillsbury, is singing.

"_Never say goodbye…never say goodbye…never say goodbye_."

I've only been moved to tears once in Glee Club, when Kurt sang _I Have Nothing_. Now, once again, my throat's tight and all I can do is nod and mouth thank you.

Everyone hugs me, and then Brittany slams a pie in my face. Ms. Pillbury screams and Finn and Sam dog pile on me.

"When are you having kids?" shouts Sam, smacking me in the arm. "Oh, pysch! You can't have kids!"

"Well, Kurt's probably already adopted five."

"Picked a college yet?" peeps Ms. Pillsbury.

"Not yet!"

"Are you even legal?" asks Jake uppishly.

"What's it to you?"

"Blaine Warbler!" calls Brittany.

I turn around and get another pie in the face.

"I'm gonna get you, Brittany S. Pierce!"

She shrieks and tries to run, but slips in whipped cream and falls in a heap, laughing so hard there are tears in her eyes. I pick up a pie to smash over her head, but Artie wheels in and scoops her up. When I aim the pie at him, he yells, "This is a handi-capable safe zone!"

The pie fight becomes significantly less fun when we run out of pies; we all exchange a few more sticky hugs, and then I walk down the halls for a last time.

I pause at Sue's office, because by the door, there is a fishbowl with my bowties in it. I stare at the contraption, indignant and confused, and then she appears behind me.

"Ever hear of a panty raid, Hot Porcelain?" she whispers.

I turn around and smile pleasantly. "I would like to redeem my dinner at Breadstix. Blaine Anderson has, including the one he's wearing now, exactly seventeen bowties."

* * *

The sky's the color of a vintage Coke bottle and leaves are falling outside my window. In movies, this is the kind of day they select for the hero's departure, when the only thing he knows is independence.

We all do things illegally before coming of age – sneak a drink, a cigarette, fool around – but when you are of age, and you're leaving, and your life and your future is in your own hands, it's a different feeling. It's a different kind of new. It might still be rebellious. It might still be a risk. But the only person who can truly say no is you.

I pull my fawn-colored leather jacket a little snugger, and then load my embarrassing wealthy-Midwest-kid Cadillac with my bags. I slide into the driver's seat, adjust the mirrors, and meditatively start the car.

Driving away is like nothing else in the world. It's a feeling I hope everyone gets to experience at least once. It's an agreement with the universe to find yourself; it's an agreement to forgive your past; you're signing on your lifeline.

I turn on the radio as I pass under towering power lines. Smokey Robinson's _Cruisin'_ comes on and I actually laugh out loud. I put on sunglasses even though it's seven in the morning, sing along and drive too fast.

I pull off in Marysville a while later to get coffee.

"Going anywhere special?" asks the barista, one of those rare Ohio girls that frizzy highlighted hair actually looks good on. She likes me, which is cute.

"Yeah, actually. New York."

"No! New York!? Why?"

"My boyfriend lives there."

"What?" She hands me my coffee and leans in furtively. "What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said. Have a nice day."

Realization dawns on her face in the rearview mirror as I drive away, and I grin a little bit.

The drive starts to feel long when I hit Dublin. I drive past cornfields skirted by subdivisions that seem more like afterthoughts than settlements. Reach well past twenty on the cemetery count. As I get closer to Columbus, Rachel calls. I pull off at a hotel.

"Hey, Rach."

"Blaine! Hi!"

"Holding up?

She sighs "Yeah. Kurt's a dream. He always has good advice."

"Want to talk about it?"

"No. I've got a class. God, you're both just dreamboats! You're always so sweet and receptive and…and I don't deserve any of it."

"I talked to Finn. He seems like he's working it out."

"I know. I told him that he's still got himself, and that's more important than having me." She sighs again. "I actually called to talk about Kurt. He was lying when he said he fell down the stairs."

I freeze up. Something can't come up now, not when I'm on my way to the airport.

"What really happened, " she says in a sad, determined tone, "is he got beat up in Home Depot because... well, a guy asked to borrow his phone and when he saw Kurt's background, when he realized Kurt was gay…he started taunting him and Kurt was having a bad day and he…snapped. He punched the guy in the face, and it was three against one, and it was Kurt, so really it was more like three against one half. They hit him. A lot. He blacked out."

"_What_? Wait! Kurt punched someone?"

"The guy told him that you were too good for him, because you're handsome. That's what triggered it, I think."

I shake my head in disbelief. "Is he there? Kurt?"

Rachel sighs yet again. "Not right now."

"Just…tell him to call me. Tell him I'm always there for him."

"I will. And Blaine?"

"Yeah?"

"He didn't mean to lie to you. I can tell he feels awful. He misses you."

I smile tightly. "Tell him I miss him, too."

"I will."

We get off the phone but I don't get back on the road for a few minutes. I massage my eyes, frustrated, and get out to stretch. Then I lean against the car, close my eyes and think of Kurt's voice. Not his talking voice – his singing voice. It's the only thing that can calm me down sometimes, and I usually think of _Blackbird_.

When I watched him sing that, it was like the sun had broken through the clouds, like I was falling weightlessly. When he turned toward the window, tears streaming down his face, I remember smiling slowly. I was in love with him. It was so clear to me. After all, I had been for a while.

That feeling needs to be in every cell of my body right now. It needs to be, or I shouldn't be going on with this plan. So I close my eyes and think of _Blackbird_, and it rushes into me like a wave, born backward by the water, foam rolling over my face, weightless again.

I get back on the road and pull into the Columbus Airport around 9:30. I check my luggage, just a duffle bag – I'll ship everything else – and end up going on to Security fairly quickly. And what do they take? Out of all the goo I brought with me, they take my hair gel.

"I know you can't take my word for it, but I _really_ need that," I try to explain to the muscled TSA agent who obviously has to, and does not want to, spend his time frisking innocent travelers. "They don't sell that in stores. I have to order it from Sephora."

I'm clearly not getting through to him, because he grunts and says, "It exceeds three ounces."

I look at him incredulously. "With all due respect, does a teenager who uses $30 hair gel fit the profile to you?"

"It's policy. Please proceed to collect your shoes."

"What if I put it in a three-ounce container?"

"That must be some special hair gel if you're putting up this much of a fight," he says, unmoved.

"No, you don't understand. I'll look like Russell Brand in curlers."

"Do you really want this to be difficult?" he asks, gesturing at the man they keep on standby to pat down suspicious persons.

"Look – I can empty my water bottle and just—"

"You know what you can do? You can pick up your shoes and go to your gate."

I look longingly at the container of gel one last time, and move on.

I sit in the white-on-white-on-white waiting room next to my gate, eating a cream cheese and lox bagel and looking through a magazine. I give up on that when I get to the section about exercise balls and how they'll change your life and possibly the very cosmic forces in the world. I pick up the New York Times and try the crossword. This does _not_ help my confidence in my decision to drop out of school. At around noon, my phone buzzes.

"Kurt!"

"Blaine?" His voice is thick. "Blaine, I'm so sorry. I don't even know what to say. It was so selfish and wrong not to tell you and I completely understand if you want to break up."

"Kurt," I whisper. "Kurt, that's the last thing I want. I just want to know you're okay."

He doesn't speak for a minute, but I know he's shaking his head very fast in an attempt not to cry. Then his voice breaks. "I'm not okay! I'm not okay at all! I thought I could do this without you! I thought I could come out the other side of the tunnel and be okay, but we have this cord stretched 500 miles, and one of us will either drop it, or something will cut it apart, or it will break from the tension, but in a month I see myself empty-handed and directionless and missing the most important thing in my life." He sounds like he can't breathe. "I'm trying to improve my life and become who I want to be, become someone who's worthy of loving you—"

"—Kurt—"

"—and instead of doing that I left you alone, and isolated myself, and threw everything we had away for a stupid dream!"

"Kurt, your dreams are not stupid and I'm not too good for you. I don't ever want you to think either of those things."

"I do think those things! A lot, Blaine!"

"Kurt, is this about what happened at Home Depot? Is this about something a stranger said to you?"

"It doesn't matter who he was," he says softly. "He was right. You're every kind of perfect. I'm like a little glass bell. I sound nice and look alright, but I'm…ornamental." I don't hear anything but a crumply splutter, and then he bursts out, "It was my biggest fear to stand out and now it's my biggest fear not to, and I don't know what to do, and I didn't get into NYADA and I'm alone and I'm no one! I am no one, Blaine!"

I've never heard him cry like this, and it's my fault. I should have known that he was hurting. I should have paid more attention. At the beginning, his incessant praise of the city and Vogue wasn't just praise. It was a test. He was checking his psychology, judging how honest he was being about his new situation. And instead of listening, I acted gipped.

"Kurt," I say in a soothing voice, "I'm every kind of average, and way too many people mistake that for perfect because it's right in the middle. You're idiosyncratic and I love that. You speak French and can hit a high F and you got an internship at Vogue without even trying. You make an impression the second you walk in the room. When I met you, you were a drug, Kurt.A _drug_. And I'm not the only person that feels that way. You're going to be an icon."

He sniffles, coughs and tentatively says, "Okay. I believe you." He pauses. "Just keep talking. I need your voice. Say the alphabet if you want."

"The alphabet?"

He laughs weakly and I picture him sliding down into a chair to get comfortable. "Yeah. The alphabet. Just describe what you're seeing right now. Where are you?"

I glance around the airport. "I'm…late for school. I'm home. Making breakfast."

"What are you making?"

"A…waffle. With peanut butter and honey. I overslept because my parents decided to have one of their bizarre date nights. Have I ever told you about that? They put on Blue Oyster Cult and just sort of…look at each other across their little RV booth in the kitchen and drink Andre."

"RV booth?"

I laugh. "Yes. When the engine gave out, they brought the so-called furniture inside. What about you? Where are you right now?"

"At work, illegally making a personal call. What does the waffle taste like?"

"You're all dreamy right now, aren't you? You're looking out a window at the city with your eyes half shut."

"Eyes half shut, meditating on your voice. I used to do that with my favorite singers. I'd write down every adjective I could think of for the quality of their voice."

"Have you done that with my voice?"

"I've tried, but your voice turns me on too much for me to be objective." He laughs. "But that's what your voice is. It's smooth and hot and breathy and crisp. It's like a kiss."

"That's the best thing you've ever said to me."

"I miss you like crazy." He sighs. "You should go. You're almost missing second period."

We get off the phone and I get on the plane. Row C, Seat C, a window seat next to an elderly woman who, despite the fact that people are still boarding and adding luggage to the upper compartments, has liberated her Chihuahua from its kennel. When I put down the armrest, it growls at me. I give it a dignified look and it replies with audible indigestion. The glamour and romance of air travel is not what it was in the days of Mad Men.

It's been years since I've been on a plane. The last time was for a vacation to Fiji. I think of the phrase "should have known better" when I think of that trip. Staying in a hostel without running water or, needless to say, hair gel? Should have known better. Trying a local delicacy that turned out to be a type of sea worm? Should have known better. Mom wearing a yellow bikini? Sweet Lord, why didn't she know better? Anyway, it's been a while, and I've forgotten how mind-numbing it is; it gives you almost instant fatigue.

The plane shakes and the seatbelt light flashes on. A stewardess requests that the woman next to me put her dog back in its case; she hides it under her tweed coat instead. I lean back and study the no smoking symbol, which for some reason, had to be repeated every four inches on the ceiling of the plane. For years, one sign probably did the trick, and then some asshole complained he couldn't see the no smoking sign and therefore didn't know he couldn't smoke on the plane. Thank God for that "pioneer."

The seatbelt symbol goes out and the drink cart comes around. I have ginger ale and pull out a book Kurt told me to read, but end up putting my head back and sleeping, instead. I didn't sleep a lot last night.

When I wake up, I pull out a notepad and start jotting down ideas for when I surprise Kurt. I've got a beautiful plan, but to be honest, I don't know what the logistics look like. I don't even know if he'll be home tonight. But I can't call Rachel. She'd never be able to hide it. Then it hits me.

Reaching Isabelle Wright involves outsourcing, menus, and last but not least, the approval of her watchdog secretary. At last, she's on the other end of the phone.

"Is this…Isabelle Wright?"

"It is. And you kindly identified yourself as my intern's boyfriend. So what can I do for you?"

"Can you keep a secret?"

"Oh, Cartier is my favorite for rings. Undeniably."

"Actually, that's not it. I'm flying out to New York right now to surprise him, but I need to know his schedule."

She gives me his schedule, tells me where to buy flowers, offers advice on JFK and which subway routes to avoid. Then she laughs and says, "Take his mind off work, will you? He's so dedicated. It'll be the _Oval Portrait_ 2.0. Actually, you know what? Take a long weekend. I can survive a few days without him."

"That would be incredible, Ms. Wright."

"Have you ever been to New York?"

"Nope."

"Oh, you're in for a treat. How long will you be staying?"

"Hopefully…permanently."

"Well, I want to meet you! Don't let me forget."

"I'll be a nuisance, I promise."

"Perfect. See you soon. Bye-bye."

It doesn't hit me until this moment what my true intentions are. What I said earlier, about love being about the present and not the future, wasn't exactly accurate. Every time you fall in love, you want it to last, so some part of love must be about the future. I guess I see the future as a future present, if you know what I mean; the future should matter then, not now. But it does matter now. I want something to rely on. Really, the present feels the way it does because it has something to do with the future – the importance of the present depends on the uncertainty of the future. Future uncertainty is the very thing that causes us to act the way we act. The truth is, at this moment, I want to be with Kurt the rest of my life.

I don't know if I believe in love at first sight, but I know when I first met Kurt, something shifted in my brain. It's what I said to him - there is a moment where you say to yourself, "Oh. There you are."


	5. Prodigal

**You might have guessed from the title…but Sebastian's back in all his snide, 6'3" glory.**

* * *

I find a pool of sunlight in the corner of the packed restaurant. I eat my turkey and brie sandwich quietly, sip some cola. I'm trying to jettison the feeling that I'm a placeholder for someone else, someone better than me. I focus on Blaine's words, but it's not the same without him here; eating undercooked tater tots together at McKinley was better than eating this gourmet sandwich, alone, here.

I watch a couple dip French fries in garlic vinegar, lean in close, laugh at something only they know is funny. I breathe in deeply and stare at the dappled surface of my sandwich bread. Why am I pretending? This is gripping me, this insecurity and homesickness. It's claws are deep in my body at this point and it's not going to go away unless I feed it.

I should have thought about this more before I left. I need Blaine. He's the only one that understands me. I thought that in a city of strangers, I wouldn't need to be understood, but we think a lot of things, and we're wrong a lot of the time. I do need Blaine.

I run my index finger over a contusion on my cheekbone; it's still soft and sore, though nothing like before. I talked to a psychologist at the hospital. She considered the people who beat me up as victims, too – their "hyperaggression" and "antisocial behavior" must have resulted from a bad childhood, and they may in fact be doing as well as can be expected. Bully for them. She also said that I have a "violent tendency," as I was the one who initiated a fight, and beyond all that, suggested I make myself "less of a target."

I glance back at the couple with the garlic vinegar. They're counting out quarters for a tip. They look at me looking at them. By the time I've formed a friendly smile, they've looked away. I stare at my sandwich again. Blaine. Vinegar. Violent tendency. Blaine.

I leave the sandwich shop and text Blaine.

**If I end up with a scar on my lips, will you mind?**

**Not at all. ; )**

**If my lips stop working all together, would you find other places to kiss me?**

**If we were alone, I would show you. **

"There you are, Kurt!" cries Rachel from behind. "I've been looking for you all morning!"

I snap my phone shut and try to smile normally. "Hey, Rach."

"Did you already eat? I'm starving!" She fusses with her scarf and runs her fingers through her hair as we walk. "Your face is starting to look a lot better!"

My phone vibrates and I frantically turn it off and transfer it to my shirt pocket.

Rachel giggles and whispers, "Were you sexting? Was Kurt Hummel sexting?"

I open my mouth and when no words come out, she throws her head back in delight.

"I wasn't!" I say quickly. "I was _flirting_. There is a difference."

She puckers up her lips and moons, "Oh, Kurt!"

My eyes widen and my hair stands on end a little. "Okay!" I say in a high voice. "That's plenty of that! Let's go get you something to eat!"

She kisses me on the cheek and heads down 6th Avenue. I sigh and follow her while my phone buzzes incessantly in my pocket.

* * *

I glance down at my phone, but Kurt hasn't replied. I rub my bottom lip thoughtfully and play with the ice in the bottom of my ginger ale. I start to get jittery and restless, which I don't understand. I know Kurt. He's my missing piece. We're more comfortable around each other than around anyone else. But I can't seem to shake the feeling. My entire abdomen tenses up and my hands twitch. The last time I remember being this nervous was when I went to talk to Kurt after Pavarotti died, and that made sense for me to be nervous about – I knew I was going to tell him I loved him; I knew I was going to kiss him. But this? This is a reunion. This is supposed to be like _The Notebook._

We're asked to shut off our phones and prepare for descent. When the plane lands, I stay in my seat for a while, getting everything organized. The layover's about four hours, which will give me a chance to get my nerves under control and get something to eat. All I've had is soda and coffee, which come to think of it, is probably part of the reason I feel like I'm about to dissolve.

I stand up and sling my bag over my shoulder, but I can't get to the aisle because the woman with the Chihuahua is having another disagreement with the flight attendants. She wants to let the dog get out on its own and take him on a walk on the runway. I want to be able to get drunk and know better than to moonwalk while simultaneously participating in a Jell-O shots contest, but you can't get everything you want. Eventually, the woman puts her dog in its case; on her way out, she informs one of the flight attendants that her lipstick is too dark.

"It isn't," I assure her, sliding out into the aisle.

She shrugs and shakes her head before moving on to help other disgruntled travelers. I get off the plane and walk purposefully to a sandwich stand. I know O'Hare alright, considering we won Nationals here in Chicago last year. I wander around the terminal, question why an airport needs a Harley-Davidson store, and end up collapsing when the nerves and fatigue catch up with me. I take up five chairs to lie down and hold a magazine above my head to read it.

"Blaine?"

I glance up and see Sebastian Smythe, an image from the past in his Dalton uniform.

"No way," I say, sitting up to make room for him. "Sebastian? What are you doing here?"

"My parents are divorced, so I visit my mom here in Chicago a few times a year." He rubs the back of his head nervously. "Before you say anything, I'd like to apologize again. I'm really sorry for what happened last year. I was a predatory jerk."

"Everything's fine," I tell him. "At least between you and me. As for Kurt…"

"He has a right to hate me." He smiles. "You still together?"

"Yeah, actually. Funny you asked. He moved to New York and I'm on my way there right now to join him."

"Why did he move?"

"Well, he tried getting into NYADA, that drama school?"

"Everybody knows NYADA. Go on."

"He didn't get in, but he got a paid internship at , and that was huge for him. He's living with Rachel Berry at the moment."

"Perfect fit. Hey, let me buy you a cup of coffee."

I gape at him. "You have got to be kidding."

"I swear this is innocent. I'd just like to catch up."

I shift uneasily in my seat. "I don't know if I can trust you, Sebastian."

"C'mon. Let me prove myself. I'm cleaning up my life. Really, I am."

"How about I buy _me _coffee and you buy _you_ coffee?"

He nods. "That sounds alright."

We get up and start walking down the terminal.

"When does your plane leave?" I ask.

"About an hour. So, you're taking the big step? Living together?"

"I see it more as rescuing him from Rachel. She's talented, but she takes a lot of managing. Like a little dog that you have to brush for an hour every day."

"And Rachel's in New York because…?"

"She did get into NYADA."

"What happened to that bulky football player she was with?"

We step up to the coffee stand and each order something. I glance around, on the off chance someone else we know is around, and say, "Well, it's probably a betrayal to tell you this, but it's a great story."

We go sit down next to window that overlooks the runways. He takes the lid off his coffee and sucks the foam from it.

"A betrayal? Not if it doesn't involve Kurt."

"It doesn't." I pause. "Maybe you could give me some advice to pass on to her, considering you passed the homewrecker stage yourself."

He laughs, relaxed, and nods at me to go on.

"Rachel and Finn were on and off for two years, but they finally decided to get married. But on their way to do that last year, Quinn Fabray got into a car accident, so they postponed and then when it came time to graduate…Finn sent Rachel off to New York because he didn't want to hold back her dreams. That was a really solid thing to do, in my opinion. I did the same thing for Kurt. And Finn went on to join the army—"

"You're kidding. Why?"

"His father was in the army," I respond, cutting out the more personal, important part of the story. "That's why he joined. But it didn't go well, and he went to New York to see Rachel and walked in on her and another guy. She tried to pass him off as a friend, but she had egg on her face, and she and Finn broke up."

Sebastian sits back and whistles. "That is a good story. So are you asking me what it's like from her perspective? What compelled her to do that?"

I shrug. "I'm asking because I'll be in the thick of it in a few hours, and I don't have that bone in my body."

"You want an inside perspective," he says, smirking. Then he settles into a thoughtful face and rubs his hands together. "I would say…that she felt out of character. She's an attractive, successful college student. It feels wrong to have almost everything, especially for someone like her. It's all or nothing."

I nod. "That sounds plausible. It's odd, though, because all she ever wanted was Finn."

"Well, who was the guy? Popular at NYADA?"

"Legend," I reply. "On Broadway."

"This is perfect," he says. "I can tell you every faulty little step her brain went through, because the same thing happened to me. When I heard about you, everything in my life became directed at meeting you. You know, that phrase "another notch on the bedpost?""

"Yeah," I say uncomfortably.

"Well, it's not very accurate for me, because it implies every notch is the same, and they're not. I didn't seduce everything that moved."

"That's debatable."

" No, I was much more selective. It's a linear process. I wanted to keep moving up, and you, the unparalleled talent at Dalton? You were the top. It's more about ambition than desire. So with Rachel, it was a combination of things. She felt incomplete _and_ she has a natural ambition to have the very best, even if she's not necessarily in love with the very best. It's an internal conflict about image and none of it comes out of genuine feelings. It depends on how Finn sees it. Some people handle the excuse "it didn't mean anything" better than other people."

"Problem is," I say, finishing my coffee, "I think it did come out of genuine feelings."

He shakes his head. "I don't think people typically cheat because they like the other person more. They're just lacking something."

I nod reluctantly. "It's true. Finn wasn't the best boyfriend. He didn't call her for four months."

"There you go."

"Well, thanks. That was actually a good analysis."

"I've turned to academia, my friend. I got a 2260 on the SAT."

"Picked out a college yet?"

"Harvard Law."

"You're going to be a lawyer?"

"I'll be able to win cases on sheer intimidation. Work for a big corporate company, retire at age 35, take up singing again."

"You're putting that on hold?"

"My parents said they won't pay for college unless it's something practical."

I lean back in disbelief. "You can't give up singing, Sebastian. You're good. Really good. And it's your dream, isn't it?"

He bites his lip, looking pained, and stares out the window. "That's not my dream, actually. My dream's lacrosse, but a gay lacrosse star? And I'm not that good, anyway."

"Maybe not for pros, but for college? I've seen you play. You're good enough for college, and in college, you can get good enough for pros."

"I'm not like you or Kurt. I don't challenge the odds. That's probably part of the reason I treated Kurt so badly. I was intimidated by how…true to himself he was willing to be."

"You were not intimidated by Kurt."

"I was completely intimidated by Kurt!" he laughs. "Completely!"

"It would mean something if you told him that."

"Maybe I could visit you guys sometime."

"No promises."

"I understand." He pulls a couple of caramels from his bag. "Want one?"

I hold out my hand and he drops one onto my palm.

"Tell me more about the lacrosse thing," I say, unwrapping the caramel.

"I don't want to talk about that. It is what it is."

"Nothing has to be what it is."

He shrugs and looks out the window again.

"Look at me," I say quietly. "Don't be ashamed of what you want to do."

He meets my eyes. "I _am_ ashamed of what I want to do. I've been taught to be ashamed of anything that's not normal."

I breathe out. "Oh. I didn't know, Sebastian. Your parents don't…?"

"Yeah." He laughs humorlessly. "They're just this side of sending me to a rehabilitation clinic. Little late for that." He looks down. "Can I tell you something?"

I nod. He holds onto his coffee cup tightly.

"I have HIV."

Silence falls over us like heavy smoke, and it's like I'm seeing through a tunnel. That wasn't what I expected, and on top of that, I get the sense I'm the only person he's told.

"I am so sorry," I say finally. "Sebastian, I am _so_ sorry."

He sniffles. "This isn't about to turn into some declaration of love, I promise. I just…I would like to be friends, Blaine. You make me feel accepted. My parents don't. Dalton doesn't. And I don't know where I'm going. I just feel like…I feel like _Another Suitcase in Another Hall_. And this has to mean something, doesn't it, that we ran into each other like this?"

I nod. "I think so."

He smiles slightly. "I knew I was gay for forever. It was no big realization, and I was comfortable with myself. It didn't occur to me that anyone would shut me out for something that I liked about myself. But when I told my parents, they couldn't accept it. And that's when it all started. If that behavior wasn't legitimate to them…well, then I'd double it, triple it. I'd live like there was no reason to be careful." He folds his arms and speaks slowly. "It's my fault that I got what I got, but I want so badly – _so_ badly – to blame them."

I take a risk and put my hand on his shoulder. "If you need anything at all, you can ask me. I'm serious. If your parents are giving you a hard time, you can come stay with me and Kurt…if you want some moral support with doctors…anything at all. This is the kind of thing we need to support each other on." I pull out a notepad. "Here's the address."

He pockets it. "That means a lot." He pauses to look around the terminal. "Have you ever had it really hit you that you are just one of seven billion people and had that realization scare the hell out of you? I was out at mom's summer house on Long Island, looking out at the ocean, and I thought, no one understands how much something small like that can mean. We sensationalize and stereotype _everything_. Everything's a product. She's a Virgo, or he wants to be an astronaut, or I like hazelnut coffee. Those things all go in boxes instead of really being considered as part of who you are. You know what I mean? An observer would look at me looking at the ocean and think…Abercrombie…instead of, oh, there's Seb."

"You know what, Sebastian? When you talk like that, no one will care if you're gay, or have AIDS. They'll be able to relate to you. That's where you can find your strength. Don't try to give up who you are or try to…to purify yourself. Life _isn't_ pure. If you pretend it is, oh, you might be rich and famous; people might love you. But it will be a different kind of love than if you admit we all feel like we've been liquefied inside. That will be truer, to yourself and everyone else."

He nods slowly. "Thank you. You're right."

When we land at JFK, my heart does backflips. The airport is unremarkable – gray, expansive, utilitarian – but it's New York, and that's all it takes to send me completely over the edge. That, the thought of seeing Kurt and, of course, the coffee marathon. I'm practically sprinting when I get off the plane. Waiting for my luggage, I must look like a marionette in the hands of a drug addict. I keep shaking and shifting. Controlling my own feet? Are you kidding? They're on strike. _Over __here__, Blaine_, they seem to shriek. _Let's go look at these __luggage carts__! What about running down to that __newsstand__? You're not seriously going to stay __still__ right now, are you? _

My guitar case finally appears on the luggage carousel. I pick it up and head straight to the train that will take me to the right subway route.

I'm actually able to get my tickets, go through the little revolving gates and board the train without causing any other travelers to foam at the mouth. When Kurt and I flew to Chicago for Nationals, we were like that pesky red light in car chases that allows the villain to get away. We held _everyone_ up, or so it seemed. Solo – and high on adrenaline – I do a lot better.

The AirTrain is a fifty minute connection to the J Train in Brooklyn; after the J train, I have to figure out how to get to Kurt's apartment in Bushwick. When I'm settled in on the AirTrain, I watch the descending sun dip behind telephone poles, fences and highway signs.

Why do we feel an obligation to perfection at the times when perfection is least likely? The moments in our lives where we're taking the next step, or accepting a loss, or realizing who we are – those are the moments when we feel, more than ever, that we have a camera on our backs. It's that sensation that begs for perfection. But the truth is, the moment can be positively cinematic and it still won't be right because you're the actor. Nothing's ever quite right when you're the actor. It's a fact of life that an observer's definition of perfect is always more lenient than your definition.

So I sit back and try to accept this. Whatever song comes on, _that's _right. I've watched too many people try to orchestrate their lives and miss the point.

Adele's _One and Only_ starts playing on my iPod. I take this as a good sign, and smile.


	6. Teenage Dream

**This is a long chapter but so, so worth it. I'm probably not supposed to have a favorite…but…well…I like this one quite a bit. : D**

* * *

I've decided not to give up on NYADA, but I haven't told anyone yet. In the precious couple of hours Rachel spends at Callbacks each night, I will work on the application. Here I go again, hiding things for no real reason. I think there must be a part of me that needs a lot of love and protection; it might be the smallest part, but I think it's the truest part, too. Why do we hide that part away, when it's the one we should be proud of? Are we so scared it will get broken that we decide it's better to keep it from developing? I guess. In any case, for now, the NYADA application is a secret.

I scrunch over the paperwork and check boxes, write addresses and phone numbers, try to describe what the Glee Club meant to me in 150 characters. I don't like feeling this serious about anything, but especially about NYADA, and I wish it wasn't so hard to trust life. But it makes sense that someone like me has trouble accepting things will naturally work out. Accepting that is like admitting you did something wrong. What do you mean I didn't need to put in so much work? What do you mean life's got a plan?

I'm trying to trust life more. I'm really trying. This week hasn't helped at all.

I hear music playing distantly, just above the murmur of horns, almost indiscernible in the buzz of streetlights, buskers and barking dogs.

I look back at my NYADA application. "What does the term_ believe _mean to you_?"_

The music, which is live, gets a little bit louder. My heart rate goes a little bit faster. I shake my head to clear it and stare at the small, italicized word on the page_. Believe. _Bah-leeeve. Bleeeve. Focus, Kurt! What does it mean to you? Put your pen on the page!

I'm starting to recognize the song. It's _Teenage Dream_.

"_Before you met me, I was all right, but things were kinda heavy. You brought me to life._"

I dedicatedly reread the question. Then I stare at it some more. Staring helps comprehension, right? The doorbell rings and the music grows even louder.

"_You and I, we'll be young forever_!" The doorbell rings again. "_You make me feel like I'm livin' a teenage dream, the way you turn me on."_

Realization hits me like a hurricane. I spring to the door, open it and almost sink to my knees when I see Blaine. I cover my face, not sure whether to laugh or shout or cry. I'm transported, staggered, drunk with joy.

He almost stops and puts down his guitar, but he sings through a grin.

"_We drove to Cali and got drunk on the beach. Got a motel and built a fort out of sheets. I finally found you, my missing puzzle piece. I'm complete_. _Let's go all the way tonight. No regrets, just love. We can dance until we die. You and I, we'll be young forever!"_

What does the word believe mean to me? It's this. Every word he sings makes me certain that this is right, that this is everything I'll ever need

"_You make me feel like I'm livin' a teenage dream, the way you turn me on. I can't sleep. Let's run away and don't ever look back. Don't ever look...I'ma get your heart racing in my skin-tight jeans, be your teenage dream tonight...let you put your hands on me in my skin-tight jeans..." _His voice quivers slightly and grows soft. "..._be your teenage dream tonight._" He slides the guitar off his shoulder and just says,"Hi, Kurt."

I stumble into his arms and he holds me close. We stay like this for a minute, and it feels like a glimpse of eternity. If you can say, even for just one moment, that your life is perfect, then everything else, even the blackest, bleakest spells, are worth it. And right now, my life is perfect.

When I pull back, there are a million words in my head, all pushing each other out of line to be the first ones spoken. The ones that win out?

"Oh my God! Your hair!"

He grins. "My hair gel was more than three ounces."

We kiss quickly and then I cover my face.

"I mean I love you," I say, mortified. "That's what I meant to say."

"Well, it's kind of hard to ignore," he says, glancing up at his curls. "I love you, too."

Then we meet eyes and unreason ensues. Skin, hair, fabric - it doesn't matter. It has to be touched and kissed and understood. We break apart only when a car alarm goes off below us. I look at him for another few seconds, letting his image sink in, and then I take his hand and pull him through the door into the apartment.

The words in my head are no longer single file. In fact, they're so out of control, the little word police have brought out teargas.

"Do you want something to eat? All we have is Ramen, but it's this kind of Ramen you find in Chinatown so it's actually alright it'll still give you high blood pressure and I think it has beetles but it's cheap and the noodles are shorter so they don't get all over your face how did you get here did you go through JFK any layovers does Rachel know Rachel's not home she's at Callbacks this bar and she's probably with Brody who kind of reminds me of your brother except even more of a jerk and sorry about the paint samples by the way we're painting the place the water's alright here if you want something to drink but it has sort of a coppery flavor and the floor's also pretty clean except last night I saw a mouse but that's not as bad a rat and there's only been like fifty ants the whole time we've been here but there is this water stain that makes me want to cut my eyes out and the first time I tried to plug something in it shorted out and-"

Blaine grabs me by the shoulders and earnestly says, "Kurt, we've got all night."

I breathe out and let my eyes refocus. "I don't even know what I just said."

"I don't either, but whatever it was, there was no punctuation. Nice eye, by the way."

I smile and my lips wiggle as they try to break into a laugh, but I won't let them do that. I take a deep breath and put my hands on either side of his face.

"I love that song."

He smiles. "I thought we should remember where it all started because..." He looks into my eyes unsurely. "...because this is the next step."

I raise my eyebrows. "Next step?"

He looks down and says, "I was thinking about how I could bake you cookies twice a year from Lima... and I realized I couldn't." He looks up again. "This isn't just a visit."

"Blaine...?"

"I want to live with you. Here, in New York."

My hands grasp both of his unconsciously. I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out, and then I taste salt; I run a finger under my eye, almost surprised to see it come back wet.

"You don't have to answer right n-"

"Yes," I say steadily. "I want that more than anything."

He laughs a breathy, relieved sort of laugh. "Yes?"

"Absolutely." I smile broadly. "Yes!"

We hug and he whispers, "Thank God, because I already dropped out."

"That shows how much you believe in me. That, or you've been discussing strategy with Brit."

He laughs again and then squints. "Ramen?"

"You cannot know how embarrassed I am."

I walk to the kitchen and open up the cabinet. He stands behind me with his arms around me and we stare at packages of Ramen, numerous jars of peanut butter, a squeeze bottle of generic mustard, a single chocolate muffin in a tray that once held ten, a few boxes of Kleenex and a bag of jelly beans.

"I thought you were a foodie, Kurt," he says jokingly. Then he leans his head against mine and yawns. "All I did was drink coffee and I'm exhausted anyway. It's all I did."

"Go take a shower."

"I don't want to let you go."

"Would it change your mind if I told you you smell like a food court?"

He clicks his tongue on his teeth and I turn around.

"Go on. Take a long shower and when you get back I'll have made..."

"Peanut butter ramen?"

I sigh. "I'll figure something out. Bathroom's through the living room and to the left. Don't use Rach's shampoo. She'll end you."

He laughs, we kiss and he heads out of the kitchen. I get to keep him? My brain's not adjusted to that thought yet, so I watch him disappear and don't turn back to the cabinet until I hear the shower turn on.

I sigh. Peanut butter ramen. I pick up my phone and dial Bombay Kitchen, which has been pretty inconsistent for me and Rach. That said, the times it was good it was great, so I might as well take a chance. Besides, I'll feel like a washout if I get Domino's the first night Blaine is back.

I order tikka masala, shrimp curry and cheese naan, and ask if they could bring a liter of soda, but the man on the other end of the phone seems to perceive this as an insult. Apparently, it's common practice in restaurants to spit in unpopular customers' food, so I back down.

When I get off the phone, I realize that all of Blaine's luggage is still sitting outside the door. I step onto the balcony to retrieve it and notice a bouquet of red camellias sitting on his duffel bag. I kneel down to pick them up and smile softly. I touch the petals and something kicks me back to the first moment I met Blaine.

I told the Glee Club that I was spying on the competition at Dalton, when I was actually looking for a potential out. The day that I had brooded over since middle school had finally come. The abuse had finally, and undeniably, become intolerable. It's a strange cycle with bullying. With most things, we're quick to blame other people, but with bullying, one thing that actually isn't our fault, we blame ourselves. I'm not sure if this is because it makes the violence less senseless, or because we're already down on ourselves. In any case, my trip to Dalton was part of a decision to stop doubting myself. It was time to walk away.

When I pulled up to the front of the school, I stayed in my car for a minute and stared at the three-story, mid-century, ivy-covered brick building. What was going on inside that had to be protected by that much magnificence? What was Blaine doing while I warmed my hands over the wheezy heater in my car and stared across the lacrosse field?

I walked across the frosty parking lot and entered the school. The secretary gave me a visitor's pass to sign. There was a crimson seal at the top of the page: Lux et Virtus, which means Light and Courage. It might be simplistic, but a prep school creates a feeling of alliance that a noisy, mishmash high school just can't create, and that feeling was really appealing. It only grew stronger when I walked around the school. Everyone smiled and nodded at me. The immaturity and ignorance of McKinley was completely absent at Dalton. And then there was Blaine. He talked to me like he'd known me forever, actually took my hand and lead me around Dalton. It wasn't fireworks or an electric shock or an icy plunge. But it fit. It fit in a way nothing else had ever fit. The longer you think about something, the farther you get from your original feelings, and I had been afraid of a relationship for so long for that reason. But me and Blaine? We were close instantly. Maybe that's a good indication that what we have is real.

I go back inside and put the camellias in a glass in my room. I look at them for a moment, and then I realize how out of place they are. The apartment is a _mess_. No, mess is an understatement. It's a warzone. Usually Rachel and I do a good job, but lately, we've had too many things to worry about. A little ripple of panic goes through me and I feverishly start to clean up. After a while, Blaine comes out of the bathroom wearing a towel. He sits in the corner chair and watches me for a minute, amused. Then he leans forward on his ankles, almost laughing.

"About done with that, Mrs. Draper?"

I look up from tucking in the sheets and grin understandingly.

"If it was any other night," I warn him, "you'd pay for that."

"It was a compliment! You have that same sexy doe-eyed softness." He pauses. "Do you like the flowers?"

"I love the flowers." I meet his eyes and smile. "I do. I love the flowers."

"C'mere."

Mm, there's that golden tension I've missed. Up until this moment, I've been on life support, breathing but not really alive. I walk around the bed and stand in front of his chair. We look at each other for a long time, and then I reach out and trace his lips with my little finger. He closes his eyes. I sink into the chair with him and we kiss for a while. His skin is still warm from the shower, and his hands are even gentler than I remember. I breathe in deeply and try to sustain every feeling, try to understand and sort them; but they come in a summery rush, like always, indivisible and unexplainable.

We shut the door, cutting off the light from the living room, and feel our way to the bed. Where am I? Where are you? There you are. I like having sex in blackness. It heightens the senses. It makes you remember the moment when you intertwined your fingers, or felt a jolt, or laughed because there was no other outlet for your happiness. It's like a photograph in soft focus; it's meant to be experienced, not analyzed, and anything that's meant that way creates a different kind of energy, a different kind of warmth. It's sublime, like a dream that's more real to you than waking life will ever be.

When we open the door again, my eyes water from the abrupt light. Based on the steady drip in the kitchen, it rained. Yes, there's the scent of rekindled dust and gasoline, that scent that almost every single one of us loves and connects to growing up. There is it, holding a vigil for the rain that just passed over.

"Kurt?"

Blaine's voice is soft. I'm standing in the doorway, wrapped in a sheet. Nostalgia isn't a strong enough word. I'm reminded of the first Christmas without Mom, when it rained instead of snowed. I remember it raining a lot that year, probably more than it actually did.

"Kurt? You all right?"

I turn around and smile, weakly but truthfully. "I'm all right."

And I am.

The food shows up a few minutes later. We sit across from each other at the table – which is actually made of four barrels and a length of particle board - and I rest my feet on top of his. He smiles.

"Who's braver?" He opens up a container with oily brown sauce and suspicious meat. "You?"

"It's just marsala, Blaine," I say blandly.

"Well, you first."

I dish some up and take a bite.

"It's spicy," I say optimistically. Then my face turns. I leap up to get water, but I can't find a glass, so I frantically cup my hand under the faucet. "Inedible," I call finally, head hanging over the sink. "It's inedible. Stop laughing! I can hear you laughing in there!"

"I'm not laughing!" he says unconvincingly.

I walk back into the dining room with a cloth pressed to my mouth.

He grins and takes a bite off my plate. The cycle repeats. By the time he's back at the table, I've opened the container of shrimp and taken a cautious taste.

"No," I say, incredulous. "That money-laundering operation outside of Lima that tried to pass as a café had better food. That and _Scandals_."

He makes a pained noise. "_Scandals_."

"The Shirley Temple was awful," I say matter-of-factly. "But that's what I had to order because, if I remember correctly, I was the _designated driver, like, all the time_."

He hesitates before speaking, and then he says, "Never mind."

I scoop out some rice. "No, go on. What were you going to say?"

"I was just going to say," he goes on, lifting up his glass, "that we should experiment with getting drunk again, when it's just us."

"What?" I taunt. "To make sure you don't make out with _Rachel _again?"

"You kissed _Brit, _and you were sober."

"I was…confused."

He laughs and rubs the back of his head. "Who's the better kisser?"

"I'm _gay_, Blaine! That, by itself, makes you the better kisser." I try to make the rice, which tastes like carpet, more enticing by dousing it in pepper sauce. "Poor Brit. She didn't realize that she was that last resort pizza place where you'd only go if you were desperate." I hold up a soggy piece of naan. "Let's stop pretending. All of this is inedible."

We look at the Styrofoam containers laid out in front of us. A fork shifts in the sauce and the heater kicks on in the background.

"Kafkaesque," he mutters.

"It is, isn't it? We should go get some groceries. There's a market that stays open pretty late. I could make some…pasta primavera."

He smiles. "You're my savior."

I lean in and kiss him. "C'mon. Get your coat. We can talk about the _Brody_ situation. It's my new community service project."

"We're…walking? We won't get mugged?" He runs his thumb over the crescent-shaped bruise under my eye. "It's hard to see you like this."

"Bushwick's safe," I tell him. Then I look down. "But maybe we can talk about that instead of Brody. I'm still having nightmares."

He nods and caresses my face again. "Does it bother you that I want to protect you?"

I smile. "No, it's sweet."

We lock up the apartment and head out. He takes my hand and we stop on the balcony to look down Bleecker Street, which is wet and plastered with red leaves.

"This is what I pictured," he says quietly. "When I pictured New York, I pictured you and me, just doing something…normal…like getting groceries. And I know normal's overrated, but once in a while, it's what we need. And we'll never be normal, you and me. Even when we do something normal, it'll be ours. But do you know what I mean?"

"It's not Lima," I say, just as quietly. "We can walk around here and no one will look at us."

"That doesn't make you feel like you're running away, does it?"

"No. It makes me feel like an adult. It's important to know when to walk away."

He smiles. "I love you, Kurt."

"I love you, too." I look at my feet and smile secretly. "I go back to when I sang Blackbird, every time you say that. And I don't even think you told me that, then. But that's what I think of, every time."

"That's what I think of, too," he tells me. "Every time."

I stretch my shoulders and meet his eyes. "So, want to hear how Kurt Hummel got a black eye?"

* * *

Kurt and I walk down the sidewalk. There are crooked maple trees, the spires of a Baroque church, oxidized copper fire escapes; there are also broken-down boxes, stolen carts, plastic bags pinned on fences. Bushwick's like a lithograph; the effect wouldn't be the same without the ink and the acid.

"I think the store's this way," says Kurt as we round the church.

"Have you done this before?" I wonder.

"Done what?"

"Walked around Bushwick at night?"

"It's the same as during the day. And besides," he gestures at the huge, butter-yellow church, "we have St. Guilt to guide us home."

"St. Guilt is frowning," I say, looking at the imperious architecture.

He laughs. "He should be – you can look out a window in Bushwick and see all seven deadly sins being committed at once. I should go to church this weekend wearing that shirt that says 'Likes Boys' on the front." He runs his hand through his hair and sighs. "What would yours have said if you were at McKinley then? What do you have the most trouble accepting about yourself?"

"My…image."

"You're lying."

"No, I don't mean my physical appearance. I know I'm okay there."

"Okay? I'm surprised Calvin Klein hasn't broken down your door."

"_That's_ what I mean," I say heatedly. "This idea that I'm perfect, inside and out. It's impossible to live up to."

He tilts his head in consideration. "I can see that. But it's hard to relate to. Oh, the sorrows of the beautiful people."

"I know," I tell him. "I don't know why you act like I'm so much better looking than you, though."

"I look like the Keebler elf, Blaine," he says, voice faint.

"We're just different types. You're more Burberry and I'm more…"

"You don't even want to guess how many people have told me you're too good for me."

I glance over at him. He's gone stiff as a pin, and he's hiding his face in the collar of his coat. I squeeze his hand and knock into him lightly. He gives a perfunctory smile. "I don't see what you see, Kurt."

"It's not that I'm unattractive. It's that I'm the wrong kind of attractive. I have that _gay _face."

"Look, anything that _Sebastian Smythe_ said is off the table," I tell him. "And he said all of that because he was intimidated by you."

"That's not what it felt like, Blaine. He wasn't lashing out like a cornered dog."

"That's what he told me."

"When did he tell you that?"

I hesitate. "Today, actually. I ran into him at the airport."

Kurt stops walking and looks at me head-on. "You _ran into_ him?"

"Calm down. Yes, I _ran into _him. He was visiting his mom in Chicago."

"And you waited until now to tell me that?"

"I didn't want the first thing out of my mouth to be _I talked to Sebastian, today_."

Kurt looks down the street at a building with a blue awning. "It looks like the market's closed. Let's go home." He turns around and starts walking without me.

"Kurt!" I shout.

He spins around. The look on his face sends a shard of ice into me.

"Why would you even talk to him, Blaine? And it sounds like it was personal if you talked about what he did to me!"

"He made a difference for Karofsky, Kurt."

"Only after driving him to suicide!"

He turns around again. I rock my head back and stare at the starless sky before running to catch up with him.

"Kurt, I know that he liked to torture people who had no information to give and I know how wrong that was, but he's changed."

He laughs humorlessly. "What does that mean? He's no longer an aspiring prostitute?"

"Kurt, he has AIDS."

"Good."

I glare at him.

"I'm sorry," he says after a moment. "I didn't mean that. I didn't mean that at all." He looks down and closes his eyes. "I just shut down every time I think about him."

I hold out my hand and he takes it cautiously. We start walking again.

"Do you want to know what he said?" I ask.

He shrugs. "I guess."

"He said that he was intimidated by you because he could never be as honest as you. His parents didn't accept who he was so he created this callous alter ego he could hide behind."

"I should get better at assuming other's people's lives are hard, too," he mumbles. "I've done the same thing. I just picked self-righteous instead of callous."

I smile. "You know, I think he'd like to talk to you. You should call him sometime."

"You'll regret that suggestion when my name becomes Kurt Smythe in five years."

"Romance of the century," I say, trying not to laugh.

"I like Kurt Anderson better," he tells me, leaning and kissing the side of my head.

"Well _I_ like Blaine Hummel."

We smile at each other and he says, "I still have the gum wrapper ring."

We start walking again. It's true: the grocery store with the blue awning – Santana's, weirdly enough – is closed. So we walk down Menahen, past a skinny lot that Kurt seems suspicious of, and into a neighborhood of paprika red, stucco apartments, each with neat gates and white trim. A dog barks from deep inside one. The signs are all in Spanish.

"Guess those four years of French don't help here very much," I say.

"Five years," he corrects me, "and don't make light conversation like they do in murder flicks. It makes me nervous."

We grip each other's hands a little bit tighter. Finally, after walking past a storage facility – also painted red – and another abandoned lot, we locate a second grocery store. It's called The Evergreen Grocery, and the only things visible in the windows are soda, dish soap and an ATM advertisement that highlights ten dollar bills.

Kurt presses his lips together in hesitation. "It doesn't look like it will have fresh vegetables."

"Can you even find fresh vegetables in Bushwick?"

"I usually go to Manhattan." He sighs. "C'mon. We'll look on Bushwick Avenue."

Bushwick Avenue is a hodgepodge of Victorian, villa-style and stucco houses, intermixed with foreclosed businesses and strange little churches. We pass a few people – a insomniac old woman with a dog so huge she can't possibly be keeping it in her apartment, a few teenagers in hoodies, a professional young woman who looks remarkably out of place at a bus stop, and several homeless people – and eventually see another market. We look at each other in anticipation, and then run across the street.

"24 hours," says Kurt, relieved.

We glance up at the banner, which offers cold beer, cigarettes, newspapers, hot chocolate and deli items; next to this is a government warning about Hep C, the word _scam_ written in black graffiti and an ad for "Good Sandwiches that Taste Great."

"Good sandwiches should taste _good_, shouldn't they?" I ask.

"Definitely," says Kurt, voice hollow. "Well, here goes."

Just as we step up to the door, the 24-hour sign flashes off and inside, a man in a too-short tee-shirt motions at us that the store's closed. Kurt gestures at the sign, and the man shrugs unhelpfully. We stare at the door for another minute before walking away, and then the fateful midnight hunt begins.

It starts to rain. Street cleaners move down the street like a funeral procession. Lights shut off one by one, almost like they're anticipating our arrival. We make it down to Broadway Street, which is shadowed by an elevated subway track. The store names are entertaining. Cheap Charlie's Mattress and Furniture. Unisex Beauty Salon. The Wash Club, a laundromat. My favorite is The NoNo Mini Mart, which advertises goat meat.

"Did we make a wrong turn and end up in Afganistan?" asks Kurt weakly. "Goat meat?"

I raise my eyebrows. "To each his own?"

There's a whirring noise behind us, and we turn to see a street cleaner racing down the street, shooting mucky water out onto the sidewalk.

"Blaine," whispers Kurt.

"What?" I whisper back.

"Run!" he shouts.

We sprint down the sidewalk, careening over recycling bins, pushing against buildings for speed. The whirring grows louder. Doesn't the driver see us? Or is he, at this moment, grinning maniacally at the thought of spraying us with filthy street water?

"We're not going to make it!" yells Kurt, doubling over, out of breath. "We're not going to!"

We hold onto each other tightly as the street cleaner passes; a wave of ice cold water hits us, drenching us mercilessly, head to toe. Kurt sinks to the ground. I slide down next to him and he puts his head between his knees, shivering and laughing hysterically. Then he sits up straight, grabs my collar and tugs me into a passionate, impulsive kiss. I react instinctively and crush him against me. We don't care. We're not on earth, right now.

We break apart a moment later, and we see it at the same time – the pink and orange sign across the street. Dunkin' Donuts.

* * *

"We'll take two chocolate glazed, four old fashioned, four Boston cream and two powdered sugar," Blaine lists off. I glance sideways at him and he smiles confidently. "And two coffees."

"Is that all?" asks the girl behind the counter, monotone and expressionless.

"It must get boring serving donuts all day," Blaine says considerately.

"Are you insane?" she demands. She shakes her head. "Your total is $7.49."

We pay and she hands us a box of donuts and a drink caddy with two coffees.

"That was unexpected," he says under his breath as we sit down.

"That's Brooklyn."

I take off my coat and snuggle down into my shirt, which remained somewhat dry. Blaine hands me a coffee and I hold it close to my body. He smiles. There's no word to describe the kind of warmth I feel right now. No matter what happens to me in the future, I can look back on this night, and be all right. I smile back.

"Close your eyes," he says. "Guess what kind of donut I put in your mouth."

"You're going to shove an entire donut in my mouth, aren't you?"

"No, I'm not. I promise."

I close my eyes and open my mouth, waiting. He kisses me and my eyes fly open. I try to say something, but he puts a finger on my lips and then kisses me again. I smile helplessly.

"Now, tell me," he says, breaking a donut in half. "Me…or powdered sugar?"

"It will always be you. It was only ever you."

He kisses me one more time, and then takes a bite of the donut. I take a bite, too, watching him steadily.

"We're you really in love with Jeremiah?" I ask. "I was so sure you were in love with me then, the way you looked at me, and knew my coffee order, and how you always had your hand on me."

"I always had my hand on you?"

"All the time. You always found a reason to squeeze my shoulder, or nudge me or brush against me." I look down and blush. "I probably just invented it. I was infatuated."

"No," he says gently. "I think…I think my brain was just afraid to let me love you."

"Why?" I ask, crumpling up a napkin.

He folds his hands and looks across the restaurant. "I'm not sure. I think that our brains like to shield us from the things that we really want, the things that are really real, just in case we lose them. It's a protection mechanism."

"I was just thinking about that," I tell him. "I…decided to reapply to NYADA."

He grins. "I was kind of hoping you would do that."

"Well, anyway…I decided not to tell anyone. I was keeping that part of myself hidden because it's the most important part of me; it's the part I'd be the most devastated to lose."

"Funny how we do that," he says, "how we live our lives based on our exteriors instead of what really means something to us."

"We don't want to expose our real selves, because people are so careless with what they say and do. Why expose yourself and get nothing in return?"

"Because there's always the chance you'll get something."

"But you can't live that way for years, hoping…"

"I think that's our natural state. Hope."

"It'll be better…it'll get better…"

He nods and brushes his thumb over my eyebrow. "I'm not waiting for anything with you, Kurt. There's nothing that could make this better."

"No. Nothing could…and yet…"

"And yet, in five years, we'll say it's even better." He breaks another donut and holds up his half. "To spending midnight in Bushwick with the person I love more than anyone else."

I hold up my half, too. "To being willing to spend midnight together. To courage."

He smiles and kisses me softly. We break apart when my phone rings. I answer. "Rach?"

"Kurt? Where are you? The apartment's got luggage in it and you're gone and there's this awful Indian food! It was like, like crop circles, Kurt! Where the hell are you?"

"I'm fine, Rach. I'm with…Blaine, actually."

"What do you mean?"

"He flew out to—"

She drowns the rest of my sentence. "BLAINE! Put him on the phone, Kurt!"

I hand the phone over; I can still hear her from across the table.

"Why didn't you tell me? This is perfect! Kurt has been so depressing! Oh, by the way, did you use my shampoo because I'm sure he would have told you not to, and who ordered the food because water chestnuts give me a rash, and if you could just remember to take off your shoes before coming inside-"

Blaine holds the phone away from his ear. "I will, Rachel."

"Great! And If you go to the grocery store, we're out of everything."

"I'll see what I can do…"

"Mm, I bet Kurt was so happy to see you! He hasn't been himself without you! We should all go to Callbacks sometime and sing together! We could do a touching rendition of _Bring Him Home_ or—"

"Sounds good, Rachel."

"And maybe you could meet Brody and tell me what you think of him and we could all go get some wine together except for you because we all know what happens when you drink alcohol and I loved kissing you but I don't think Kurt liked it very much, and I mean, none of us are legal, but Brody could pull something off and…"

She continues like this for a few more minutes, and when she finally hangs up, Blaine sets his head on the table in defeat. I laugh and pass the time by running my fingers through his hair.

"You know," I tell him, "I like you without hair gel. You look like you just washed up on an white sand beach."

"Nothing you say will change my hairstyle. I will die with a bottle of hair gel in my hand."

I smile dreamily. "You would be handsome even if you replaced your hair with a taxidermic ground hog."

He laughs and reaches his hand across the table. I take it and press it to my cheek. We've reached that mellow slipstream that allows us to float instead of swim; the endorphins aren't vibrating at so high a frequency anymore; they've decided to let us breathe, at least for a little while. He yawns and moves his fingers down my jaw and then my neck.

"Where do you see yourself – us – in five years?"

"I feel like I'm on a college interview," I say quietly.

"I'm serious," he says. "What do you want?"

"In our relationship?"

"In…life."

"No one knows how to answer that question, Blaine."

He smiles. "I know. But try."

I look out at the street. Veins of water trickle down the window pane, distorting the gray figures that walk by; the light from the orange and pink sign reflects on the wet concrete. I adjust my eyes and look at my translucent reflection in the window. My arms are folded, and Blaine is draped over the Formica, reaching for me; his hand is an inch from my chest, allusive. Sometimes I look at him and think about how he's changed since I met him. I neglect to do the same with myself, but looking at my reflection right now, I realize that I've changed, too. It doesn't seem right that all of my experiences prior to this night are isolated from everything that will happen from this point forward, but they are isolated. There's was, will be…and then there's this moment. I'm not sure how to feel about this moment.

"I want…" I say softly, "to wake up on a Saturday morning, to have enough money for a cup of coffee, to look out the window wherever I am, and be able to at least know where my uncertainty comes from. I want…to be able to look into your eyes and have no regrets and no remorse. And I want to believe in myself."

Blaine sits up and looks at me for a long time. He finally clears his throat and says, "You…it's like I was born in another language and you were the only one who knew how to translate me. You changed my life, Kurt, and even if you and I never get to have that Saturday morning, that will still be true. That will always be true."

I swallow hard and try to stem the tears welling up in my eyes. I nod and whisper, "Let's go to the store. We're out of milk."

* * *

The florescent light of Key Foods feels like it is physically tapping on the back of my head. I have never been this exhausted. It's all I can do to hold on to Kurt as we move down the aisles.

The dam broke and all the poison from the month of being apart has spilled out of my body. I need Kurt now like I've never needed him before. He must sense this. He's taken on a delicate kind of strength that only he has, a kind of strength that will never appear heroic but will last longer than any other strength on earth.

It gives me solace to be able to lean against him like this. Everyone sees me as the one who's in charge but I'm just as vulnerable as Kurt. We need each other.

"What kind of granola do you like?" he asks me.

"Mm?" I mumble, focused on the warmth of his hand near my spine. "I like anything."

He takes a box off the shelf and puts it in the basket, and then he pulls me down another aisle. Every time he stops to look at something, I'm thankful to stop walking. I've reached the warm, drunken state of complete exhaustion. If asked, I'm not sure if I would know my own name, but I would know Kurt's, and that's all that really matters.

The next thing I know, Kurt is kneeling next to our bed, shaking me awake. My eyes are slow to adjust to the light, but I see the mug in his hand. It's Saturday morning, and we have enough money for a cup of coffee.


	7. New York, New York!

**First of all, R.I.P. Cory Monteith. It's absolutely tragic for his family and Lea and I hope we can all let go of whatever personal issues we have for a few days and send our thoughts their way. Very, very sad. **

**On that note, I would like to offer the world's biggest "fuck you" to Westboro Baptist Church for deciding to picket Cory's funeral. They should be SO ASHAMED… I can't even put it in words.**

**Thirdly, and less importantly, here's another really long chapter! You'll get to see a lot of Cooper and a little bit of Isabelle in this chapter. And just a sweet friendly reminder, reviews - something I don't have - are very, very appreciated! I'm review homeless! Please help me out! **

**I also take prompts. If you'd really like to see something happen with this storyline, tell me! I also take random and funky prompts for whatever else floats your boat. (What does that mean? Let's not think about it…)**

**I'm not sure I've done this yet…so DISCLAIMER: I do not own Glee. I know you all thought I did, but I don't.**

**Oh, by the way, I've decided I'm going to marry Darren Criss. He doesn't know it yet, but mark my words, in ten years' time we will have four vaguely European-looking children that will all have Chris Colfer's gorgeous sparkling eyes. How, you ask? I have no idea. But that's the way it's going to be.**

**Oh, look, my dog is coming off her sedation from our vet visit earlier today! This should be entertaining. Onward!**

**Let's stand by Cory : (**

* * *

"Okay," Kurt says breathily, a strawberry in one hand, a stylus and phone in the other. "I have it all right here. First, we'll do the South Street Seaport, and then Wall Street, the Bowling Green, then Ground Zero, Tribeca for lunch, shopping in SoHo…Pellegrino's for dinner because Zagat's said it was the best…and then we can come home and…not go to bed."

I smile and shake the water out of my hair. Kurt leans forward and nuzzles my neck softly.

"Mm, I love how you smell," he says.

Rachel bustles over and shoves a carafe of tea between us. She sits down and makes a noise in the back of her throat. Kurt pulls back and blushes.

"Where are you headed, Rach?" I ask her.

"Dance class – we practice every day of the week. It promotes body consciousness and continuity."

"And Brody is there," mutters Kurt, picking through the dish of strawberries to find the reddest one.

"Yes, Brody will be there but that is not why—"

"Where's Santana when someone," he looks at Rachel pointedly, "needs a dose of Lima Heights Adjacent Reality?"

Rachel sighs dramatically. "So I kissed him. I like him and he's…he's like a life-size figure made of chocolate. I want to taste every inch of him. It's an attraction but I'm not, not in love with him. I mean, I can't be in love with him, right?" She looks back and forth at us frantically and we both shrug unhelpfully. She launches into more explanation. "Finn didn't speak to me for months and I was needy! He should have been there and he wasn't and New York is better than the army and his leg! Oh, the whole leg of it all and…"

I can see that Kurt has lost interest in Rachel's rationalizations. He's looking at me with impish eyes, pulling his lower lip into his mouth and biting it gently…and there goes my heart rate.

"…and Brody doesn't seem like _that_ guy but it's hard to tell, and I have to wonder why he would be interested in me. I mean, I am the next Barbra Streisand, but there are plenty of more curvaceous and exotic women at NYADA. Why would he go for a bran muffin like me? Nutrition doesn't matter to men as attractive as Brody. They want streusel topping!"

Kurt rubs his foot on the back of my calf and the world goes silent for a moment. Then Rachel's voice tumbles back into reality.

"When will I get it right?" she demands. "Finn was _it_ and I threw it away! I had my chance and I succumbed to Brody Weston's abdominal muscles!"

My phone rings. It's Cooper. Kurt brings his foot up my leg and presses his toes against my hip. Rachel is still talking. My brain can't decide which risky slide to take.

I hold up my hand and Rachel directs her voice at Kurt, who takes this opportunity to pinch my shirt in his toes and tug it out of my pants.

"Coop?" I ask loudly. "Cooper, is that really you?"

"Blainey!" he shouts. "You're in New York? How could you do that to your own brother? New York? Why didn't you tell me? What happened to the cows and the open air?"

"I'm moving in with Kurt."

"You're what?" shrieks Rachel. "We don't have the closet space!"

"You're what?" echoes Cooper. "You mean Kurt Hummel?"

"Yes Kurt Hummel."

"Like Hummel Tires? That Kurt Hummel? I didn't even know you were dating!"

"Yeah, we're…dating." That word feels off beam at this point. "We're really close."

Kurt smiles flirtatiously and scoots his chair in. He puts his hand on my knee, then pulls his finger up the inseam of my pants. I clench a strawberry too tightly in response and the juice sprays onto Rachel's white leotard.

"BLAINE!" she cries, and Kurt smiles lightly.

"Are you there?" demands my brother. "Who screamed?"

My brain is having trouble finding the route to my lungs. Breathing used to be so simple. Finally I gasp out, "Look, Coop, if I could call you late—?"

"Call me later? I'm your brother! First order of business – I may have found _the_ _one_. I was at the hospital, visiting the elderly, and there was this girl…"

I resign myself to listening to a story about a candy striper. Rachel, meanwhile, heaves a huge sigh, picks up her tea carafe, and heads out the door, and Kurt gets up and stands behind me, running his hands over my shoulders.

"…she looked like Adrianna Lima, bro. I was thinking about asking her if she wanted to appear in one of my ads, dressed as the Statue of Liberty..."

Kurt opens the first button of my shirt.

"…but that might come off as too professional, don't you think? Maybe I should ask her if she wants to ride in my new Porsche, instead. She should be able to appreciate money, since she's getting her business degree…"

Second button.

"…but that might come off as too James Dean. What if she likes a practical man? I mean…"

Third, fourth, fifth button.

"Get off the phone, B."

"…I'm not a practical man! Oh, hey! That reminds me! I'm going to stop by your place for dinner tonight. I can bring dessert!"

I'm so overcome with anxiety that even Kurt's touch is pushed out of my mind.

"Cooper, I really don't think—"

"Listen, I guarantee you won't be singing me a _breakup song_ by the end of it, like last time. I'll be sure not to outshine you."

"You make it sound like you'll have to dumb yourself down," I say angrily.

"Please get off the phone," Kurt begs, pressing his lips to my hair and breathing in deeply. "I'll make you feel better."

"Why do you always assume the worst in people?" asks Cooper. "All I'm saying is that I'll be less patronizing. And it's like I said. I'm hard on you because you're really talented."

"There's enough people who are hard on me for that reason."

"I don't see it that way, especially now, since you left Dalton. Where's the positive reinforcement?"

"That's not what positive reinforcement means, Cooper! Positive reinforcement is when you reinforce good behavior by giving the person a reward! This has nothing to do with reinforcement. What you're doing is called self-preservation. You feel threatened and so you try to make me feel like I have nothing to offer!"

I glance at Kurt, who's abjectly rested his chin on my shoulder. I kiss him quickly and breathe a sorry before walking out of the room. I sit back on the bed.

"Critiquing my unimpeachable singing? Or boyfriend, for that matter?" I ask. "What's that?"

"Did I say something about Kurt last time? Oh, that's right, I did know you were dating. Must not have made that big of an impression on me—"

"Excuse me?"

"—which is good! Good! It makes the relationship you know, more serious and mysterious and subtle."

I lean my head back, torn between laughter and a yell of frustration. Kurt comes in, slides into bed next to me and nestles close.

"Anyway," Cooper goes on, "how about 7:00 pm? That sound about right?"

"Sounds fine," I say stoically. "7 'o clock."

He hangs up. Kurt gives me a mellow smile.

"Cooper's coming for dinner?"

"Look, Kurt, I don't want you to think my family's screwed up."

He sits up and leans back on his ankles. "Your family isn't screwed up," he says earnestly. "It's annoying and invasive, but it functions. And besides, it's more important who you choose, not who you get stuck with."

"And I choose you," I tell him.

"And I," he says, leaning close so his lips almost meet mine, "choose you. Now will you have sex with me, or do you need to make another phone call?"

* * *

"You're going to make me gain ten pounds in one weekend," I say, tucking the paper wrapping around my sandwich more securely. I catch a tendril of mozzarella on my finger. "You really are. I've never overindulged this much in my life."

Blaine and I are sitting outside at Cipriani. Oh, the sunglasses, the seven-dollar sparkling water, the egg-yolk-yellow awning. I'm going to scream with commercial joy.

"Think of it as a honeymoon," he says.

I turn over the bill and swallow. "I think this is more than our rent."

"Is that Leonardo DiCaprio?"

Needless to say, we vow not to buy anything after lunch. We stroll hand-in-hand, wandering in and out of galleries and shops. I keep his wallet in my pocket and he keeps mine in his. Also needless to say, our resolutions break down.

"I need it, Blaine," I say, swiping my finger over the brim of a olive-green Homburg hat. It's the most beautiful hat I have ever seen…it's almost as if I was born with the vision of this hat in my mind, an archetype, like a cat slinking under a yellow streetlight. "I need it."

"It's $238," he whispers.

"You don't understand. I'm in love. I would trade you for that hat."

He puts his arm around my waist, and I lean against him with a sigh.

"$238?" I ask.

"$238," he confirms.

I look longingly at the hat for another moment. I'm just about to turn away when a familiar voice surrounds us. "Kurt! Exhibiting good taste as usual!"

I turn around and exclaim. "Ms. Wright! I, this, uh, I – this is my boyfriend, Blaine!"

She smiles and shakes hands with Blaine. Then she steps back.

"My God. How did you two find each other in Ohio? You give David Burka and Neil Patrick Harris a run for their money." She puts her hands over her mouth. "My God. You should both be actors. Quick! Someone find an agent!"

"You always make me look so good," I tell her, bubbling over.

"You make yourself look good." She turns to Blaine. "How do you like Bushwick?"

"Considering the only place we could find refuge last night was Dunkin' Donuts…"

She laughs. "Well, one day, that Dunkin' Donuts will ask you to autograph the wall. But I'm making assumptions! Maybe you aren't a singer like Kurt."

"Oh, he is," I tell her. "He was the lead at Dalton Academy in Westerville."

She points two fingers at us and says, "Caroling. You have to promise me."

"We promise," I laugh.

She smiles. "I would love to buy you two lunch."

"You're a little late." I cup my hand next to my mouth like I'm telling a secret. "_Cipriani_."

"Oh, movie star locations without the movie star salary?"

"It's a slippery slope," I agree. "But how about coffee? Blaine?"

He nods enthusiastically. Isabelle beams.

"I know just the place," she says.

As soon as we enter Abraco Espresso, Isabelle is pulled away by a friend, so Blaine and I order. I get my usual – a 16-ounce nonfat mocha – and start to order his usual – a medium drip coffee – but he stops me.

"I'll try espresso con panna. Isn't that with whip cream?"

I stare at him. "Are you alright?"

"I'm in New York. I want to try new things."

"Okay," I say in a small voice. "An espresso con panna, then."

We take our drinks off the bar and sit down at a small circular table. Isabelle joins us after a moment, holding a tall iced coffee.

"Oh, good choice!" she tells Blaine. "I love espresso con panna! That's what I should have ordered. It's really starting to get chilly outside."

She leans back and looks out the window. The sky has gone blustery; leaves whip by and shop owners close their doors to keep the wind out.

"Now explain this to me," she goes on, looking at Blaine. "Kurt told me that you were still in high school…so…did you make tracks?"

He laughs. "I dropped out, but it was all amicable. The teachers at McKinley are pretty supportive, except for the cheerleading coach—"

"Sue Sylvester!" she agrees. "That woman never stops making me laugh! You know, I watch the Cheerleading Nationals every year. It's my guilty secret. And it's gotten so scandalous, what with Roz Washington…?"

"They gave new meaning to the term catfight."

She grins. "Oh, to be there at the sidelines…what I would have given. That probably wasn't your show, though, was it? Football and short skirts?"

"No," he replies. "Kurt was on the football team, though."

"It was a fluke," I say, picturing my cherub face buried behind a football helmet. "It was really a fluke."

"No it wasn't," said Blaine. "You tried out, kicked a 50-yard field goal and got in. And then you won a critical game with another kick like that _while_ dancing to Beyonce's _Single Ladies_."

I laugh. "You weren't there. You didn't even know me!"

"I like the story. Burt tells it all the time."

I take his hand under the table. "Scarves."

He laughs and quips, "Layers."

I smile and turn back to Isabelle. "Anyway, I was still trying to impress my dad, and when he caught me and a couple girlfriends dancing to _Single Ladies_, one of the girls panicked and told him that it was a football exercise. I had to back it up. I only played that one game. I came out almost immediately after."

"We actually have had some pretty interesting experiences tied to football," says Blaine. "About a year after that, we went to a football game together at McKinley. Kurt had transferred to Dalton and we had just met—"

I lean forward. "I was madly in love."

Blaine laughs. "So was I, but I pretended I was just his friend."

"We've all done that," says Isabelle.

"Anyway," he goes on, "we were surprised to see that three girls had joined the football team and even more surprised when the football team – guys included – all danced to a mash-up of _Heads Will Roll _and _Thriller_. It was so hopeful, because one of the football players was actually the reason Kurt had to leave McKinley."

"Oh, is this Karofsky?" asks Isabelle. "Kurt and I have discussed him a bit. But I've never heard this part of the story."

"Well, it was hopeful, but Karofsky went back to his old ways—"

"—he called Blaine a prostitute, which was polite—"

"—and we almost got into a fight, but one of our friends intervened and later on, blackmailed him, forcing him to head up an anti-bullying club—"

"—and then everything exploded when Karofsky and I were crowned _prom king and queen—_"

Isabelle laughs delightedly. "Only Kurt Hummel could win a football game and later be crowned prom queen. You're my new obsession."

"I hope not," I joke. "You'll find all sorts of skeletons."

"Your closet doesn't have room for a skeleton – too many vests," she retorts. "So, what happened when you were crowned?"

"I ran out – crying – and Blaine followed me, and I paced in the halls for a long time and then..."

"And then he went back in, and gave a shout-out to Kate Middleton."

"And Blaine asked me to dance, so I wouldn't have to be alone. To this day, I think that's the sweetest, bravest thing anyone has ever done for me. I wouldn't have gone back in without him." We smile at each other briefly and I go on. "But I wouldn't have believed it if someone told me that we'd go to Senior Prom together too…I thought it was impossible. I thought too many things were impossible back then. Vogue? New York City?"

Isabelle smiles. "That's part of the beauty. Life makes us hesitate just enough that we're continually surprised." She sips her coffee. "So, Blaine, are you going to college?"

"I don't know, yet," he admits. "I don't know if I'm interested in music enough to go the NYADA route. I can sing, but Kurt's a bombshell. He auditioned for NYADA by singing _Not the Boy Next Door_ in skin-tight gold pants after literally tearing off black suit pants. All that in front of Carmen Tibideaux." He holds up his hands. "Sorry. I compulsively brag about Kurt when I meet someone."

Isabelle smirks. "I'm starting to have the same problem. Kurt and Vogue are a good match."

"I'm blushing," I confide. I take the lid off my coffee and swipe the foam from it. "And Blaine's made me curious. Not interested enough in music?"

He smiles nervously. "I love music. Of course I love music. But I was actually thinking about…I haven't told you this, Kurt, so don't be angry…but I was actually thinking about law school. My friend Sebastian just went through the opposite thing – he was set on law school, but decided on something else instead, and that's what got me thinking."

The same feeling that electrocuted me when I watched him kiss Rachel engulfs me again. Law school? His _friend_ Sebastian? I think we've had enough of that.

"Law school?" I ask, letting go of his hand.

"It's a long way away, Kurt," he says defensively. "I would still have to do undergrad."

I look straight ahead and cling to my coffee. "I feel like I just found out the Mayan Calendar is true. Someone please hit me with a brick."

Blaine is visibly annoyed. His finger's starts subconsciously tapping the table. I can't care. I fix a stare on his espresso con panna – which can go to hell, by the way – and then glance up at Isabelle. But she seems to have missed the entire silent exchange. Instead, she's staring at Blaine with revelation.

"When you said law school," she whispers, "I pictured you in a suit and I've just realized…we've been working late into the night to find the right model for the fly leaf of the next issue – Kurt knows what I'm talking about, don't you, Kurt?"

"Mm hmm," I say lifelessly. "The suit line with the peaked lapels."

"Well, you, I…!" Isabelle breathes in deeply and collects herself. "Have you ever modeled before, Blaine?"

My eyes quickly flick up to Isabelle's enamored face as I realize what she's asking, and I feel like I'm falling without a parachute. _This_ can't be happening, especially now.

"Oh, Ms. Wright," Blaine says demurely, "I'm flattered, but—"

"I don't care if you're flattered or flat-out insulted! You're _it_! What do you say? At least do a trial run with us. S'il vous plait?"

"I don't know what to say," he tells her. "I truly don't know what to say."

It's as if she doesn't hear him. "Tell me your hair is naturally curly and I will _die_."

"It is," he says dismissively, "but Ms. Wright—"

"You have naturally curly hair?" she asks breathily. "You are _it_."

I lean back in my chair and fix my eyes on the wet bark of the alder trees while Blaine and Isabelle pretend to argue. I feel like I've been punched in the stomach. Blaine showed up only days after my accident in Home Depot, and I was feeling as useless and unwanted as I've ever felt. I was vulnerable, and when he sang like that and touched me like that – when it all came back and shook me and reminded me that he's my love – what could I say other than _of course_? Of course you can stay. Of course this is right. Of course this is all that will ever matter.

But Blaine isn't all that will ever matter. I chose to have dreams. I chose that struggle. I chose it the same way I chose Blaine, and it's as much a part of me as he is. But unlike love, dreams need to travel a solitary road, especially at the beginning. By letting him into my life again, I postponed my dreams. As hard as it was, a long-distance relationship was exactly what I needed to take the first steps towards fashion and NYADA. With him back, when will I have that opportunity again? We're adults. I'm employed. The next step is getting married.

I should have, ironically, listened more closely to what he said. When I broke down and told him that I came to New York to become someone worthy of loving him, he told me that I should be pursuing my dreams, not his love, which I already had. I should have listened.

He and Isabelle shake hands. She says goodbye to us both and then we sit side-by-side, holding our bodies tight.

"Did I just get a job?" he asks finally.

"I don't know. Did you?"

"What's wrong, Kurt?"

"Oh, don't patronize me," I say briskly. "I'm going home."

I get up and walk out the door. He follows me closely, but I manage to stay ahead of him, and since I know New York better, I lose him around Grand Street. I've just taken my seat on the J train when I spot him, in pieces, running down the stairs. The train pulls out and I barely feel a pang. What happened to me in that coffee shop?

* * *

I stare at the train pulling out and feel the blood drain out of my body. I barely caught a glance of Kurt, but I know he saw me; the expression on his face didn't lie.

I fold my arms and look at my feet for a moment. People rush around me like a cyclone and I feel like I'm going to be sick. I don't know what I said.

After a moment, I decide to wait for the next train, but the fact is, Kurt's created an hour gap during which our feelings will put down roots and strangle reality. Is this all from my reference to Sebastian as a friend? From being offered a job by his boss? I don't know. I don't understand.

By the time I get to Bushwick, my remorse has been replaced with doubt. Something must have changed. Kurt must have realized something that disturbed him deeply. But what? His eyes were brighter last night than I've ever seen them. We were both laughing, alive, in love. Last night felt like a promise that no matter what happened, no matter how far we fell, we would stay together and move forward. I can't accept how final this feels.

When I get to the apartment, I don't even make it up the stairs before the door opens. I stop and watch Kurt warily; after a moment, he goes back inside, leaving the door wide. I continue up the stairs and go inside. Kurt's only inches away. He lifts his eyes, which are rimmed in red, and a few tears leak out.

"I'm so…I'm so sorry, Blaine."

"No," I say in a steady voice. "You don't get to do that. You don't get to cry and apologize and get to, to be _noble_ about this."

"What do you want, then? I'm clearly the subordinate in this relationship! Tell me what you want me to do!"

"What the hell, Kurt? What did I do that was so wrong?"

"This was supposed to be mine!" he screeches. "New York was supposed to be mine!"

I'm speechless. He must know how incredibly selfish and immature that is.

"It was what?" I finally whisper. "I'm your boyfriend, Kurt. We talked about spending the rest of our lives together."

"You could have asked!" he shouts, fully in tears now.

"Do you think those phone calls were ambiguous? You sounded like you were deteriorating! You sounded like you needed me!"

"Well, I'm sorry I didn't know myself better!" he shouts. "After what happened at Home Depot, I was vulnerable, but I should have gotten over it by myself! I shouldn't have made it seem like I was going to die without you, because the truth is, I don't need you! I want you! I love you! But I don't need you and I don't want you to think I do."

I look at the floor and set my jaw in an effort not to cry. "Well, I need you."

"No you don't! It's too dangerous to need someone!"

"Well I do need someone! I need _you_, Kurt! Maybe I got this all wrong! I moved because you needed me? No! I moved because I needed _you_!" I look at my feet for a minute, and then I ask, "What is this all about, Kurt?"

"I don't know," he says, voice trembling.

"Well, I do," I say heatedly. "You didn't want to see _me_ change. That's why the coffee bothered you. You want to be the one that's moving up in the world because that's something you've never had, and I respect that, but that can't come at the exclusion of _my_ dreams. Not if we're going to be together."

"Did you sleep with him?" he asks suddenly. "Sebastian. Did you sleep with him?"

"How can you even ask that?" I shout.

"Blaine, I…"

His voice trails off, and then he sinks into me. Forceful sobs rack his body and I put my arms around him to steady him. What else can I do? I love him to the end of the earth.

"It's alright, Kurt. Everything's fine."

"Everything is not fine," he says in a muffled voice. "I'm such a screwed up person."

"You're just recalibrating," I tell him. "It's normal."

"It's not normal. I think I've come unglued. Why do I always do this? As soon as something goes right, I have to stick a knife in it."

I guide him over to the couch and bring him a box of Kleenex from the kitchen.

"God, I don't deserve you, Blaine," he says, pulling out a tissue. "I'm going to be that martyr artist who lies around and drinks Bailey's and gets migraines while his husband dutifully picks up the kids from soccer practice."

I pause, still holding the box of Kleenex.

"My imagination's running away with itself," he says faintly, and I let go of the box.

"I don't know," I say after a minute. "There are worse things than that."

Kurt laughs. "You must be really in love with me."

"I'm really in love with you," I tell him.

He sighs. "I guess I should make dinner for your brother. Two teaspoons of _kill me now_."

* * *

"I just hope I'm resilient and never lose my sense of humor," says Rachel. "Like Betty White."

"Betty White is an amazing woman," agrees Cooper. "Why doesn't she run for president?"

"Why doesn't she?" says Rachel vigorously. "Anyone but _Romney_."

Blaine and I glance at each other and smirk.

"I think Blaine looks like a young Romney," I say, dunking a pot sticker into some broth.

"That's ridiculous," says Blaine.

"No, you really do."

I pull out my phone and call up some black and white pictures to illustrate the resemblance. He snatches the phone out of my hand to gape.

"That's reason enough not to slick your hair back," I tell him while he speechlessly peruses the images. "You might be confused for one of his sons."

"Well," he says finally, "that's easily cleared up by doing this." He leans and kisses me lightly on the mouth. "Don't you think?"

I tug him closer and engage him in a more melting kiss. "It might start a scandal instead."

"It might," he laughs.

We kiss one last time, and then a pot sticker connects with the side of my head. Cooper averts his gaze and whistles a cheerful tune.

"Are you _five years old_?" I demand, cringing as a driblet of sauce runs behind my ear.

"Oh, are you addressing me? I couldn't tell. You didn't point your finger."

Even Blaine laughs at this.

Yes, tell us about your acting!" says Rachel enthusiastically.

"It's going smoothly," he says. "I wasn't given a role in the Michael Bay movie, but I'm not discouraged. Who would reject this?" He offers us a brilliant smile. "Tell me!"

"No one," I admit. "You're still the Best Looking Man in North America. Except for Blaine. Oh, and Taylor Lautner."

"I lost you at 'no one,'" says Cooper. "There's a more pressing matter. Which one of you made the pot stickers?"

"Is there something wrong?" I ask, terrified.

"No! They're _incredible_."

"Thank God," I breathe. "I was about to say Blaine made them."

"Thanks, Kurt," says Blaine.

"You're welcome, B."

"Oh good, you solved your term of endearment crisis!" says Rachel. "I like 'B!'"

"I haven't solved _my_ term of endearment crisis," Blaine informs her. "I don't think that 'K' is as good as 'B.' And we've established that Kurty doesn't work."

"Mm," says Cooper, talking through a pot sticker, "howzabout Songbird?"

"No," laughs Blaine. "Absolutely not."

"I don't know," I say. "I kind of like it. It has a fifties ring to it."

"You know what Mom calls him?" Blaine asks Cooper. "_Pixie_."

"You can't take Mom seriously. She thinks Cuba is part of the contiguous United States."  
"And she's voting for Romney," Blaine says in disgust. "They both are. They think he'll provide better health coverage for them in their old age."

"Since when did Romney spell his name O-B-A-M-A?"

"Since Mom lost her reading glasses."

Cooper laughs and Blaine grins. I give him an approving smile and he gives me an affectionate nudge under the table. The black stain seems to have been cleaned up.

"Well, Obama's going to win," I announce. "If Kurt Elizabeth Hummel says it's so, then so it is."

"It's true," supports Blaine. "He has the final word on the outcome of the election."

"Well, Obama'll never win Ohio," says Cooper as we all get up and push our chairs in.

"Au contraire," I say. "I will bet you five hundred dollars—"

"Kurt!" interjects Blaine.

"—that he _will_ win Ohio!"

"Easy money," says Cooper.

He holds out his hand and I shake it.

"Kurt!" complains Blaine.

"This would have been more cinematic if you had let me buy the hat," I tell him.

"You never would have worn the hat to dinner, Kurt," he retorts. "You wouldn't sacrifice etiquette for fashion. But apparently, you _will_ sacrifice five hundred dollars for the thrill of betting against a celebrity!"

"Comment osez vous doutez de la pouvoir de Kurt Elizabeth Hummel! Bah! Honte à toi!"

"I don't know what you said," says Cooper. "But I admit – I am more intimidated than I was a moment ago. What say you, Blaine?"

A very specific smirk plays on Blaine's lips, and then he dips me into a low, dramatic kiss. When he lets me go, we stand straight, grip hands, and bow together.

"Thank you, thank you!" I shout. "No autographs, please!"

"Encore!" Rachel laughs. "That was enchanting!

"No criticisms," Cooper says. "You planned ahead, didn't you?"

"It was that or—" Blaine raises his voice "—shouting everything!"

"Okay, okay!" says Cooper. "It was terrible advice! I get it!"

After this, I go into the kitchen and slide a tray of turnovers into the oven, and then I join the others in the living room, which is more of a living _space_, with a thermos of vanilla coffee. Rachel lays Trivial Pursuit out on the floor.

"Ah, see, this is where Blaine's prep school education comes in handy," I say, shuffling the deck of question cards. "While I scored almost a hundred points higher on the SAT, he knows lots of irrelevant-in-any-context factoids."

"Thanks again, Kurt."

"You're very welcome. Who wants which pie?"

We settle in around the board after a minute. I lean against Blaine. He rubs my back, finding that one spot that's been lacking attention, the one spot only he can find.

"Who is the only US president to have earned his Ph.D.?" asks Rachel. "Oh, this one's hard. Let me give you a hint. It starts with W."

"Woodrow Wilson?" guesses Blaine.

"Only one of our presidents earned a Ph.D.?" I ask, mortified.

"Woodrow's a terrible name," says Cooper.

Rachel puts the card on the _used_ pile. "Correct! Okay, Kurt's turn. What sitcom megastar debuted red hair in 1942?"

"Lucille Ball. Easy. Can I suggest an addendum that requires Blaine to kiss me every time I answer correctly?"

Blaine laughs. "I vote yes."

"Only when you answer Science and Nature questions correctly," says Rachel.

"We'll make up for it later," Blaine whispers to me.

"We'll have to," I mumble. "I can't even explain why ice floats."

"Polarity," he tells me softly, "that creates a crystalline structure."

"Mm, Doctor Anderson."

He laughs and we turn back to the game. Rachel looks to Cooper.

"What so-called 'war' spawned the dueling slogans 'Better Dead Than Red and 'Better Red Than Dead' in the 1950's?"

"The Cold War," he answers, accepting his yellow pie slice. "What is this? Trivial Pursuit Idiot Edition?"

"I don't care what edition this is," I respond. "I want to get the Silver Screen Edition. I will make you cry, Rachel Berry!"

Rachel gives an exaggerated laugh. "In your dreams, Kurt Hummel! As you can see – _I_ have earned the pink slice and _you_ haven't!"

"Bring it, Barbra!"

"Oh, I will! But it's Blaine's turn…so…the Gurkhas are the original inhabitants of which country?"

"Hint?" he asks.

"It's the robe people, ah, what are they called? Monks!"

"Monks?"

"Yes. Buddhist monks."

"Oh, Nepal?"

"Nepal! Correct!"

"That can't count," I complain. "You basically gave him the answer."

"Getting nervous, Hum-Hum?" laughs Rachel. "I would be if I were you! Alright – what is the name of the award given at the Cannes Film Festival? Oh, you aren't going to get thi—"

"Palm d'Or," I say easily. "Hand over that pink slice! Hand it over!"

We spend the next hour eating too many turnovers and watching Blaine crush us. He's like a rubber band gun. _1929? Correct! Somalia? Correct! Oscar Wilde? Correct! Sarcoidosis? Correct!_

"How do you know _any _of that?" I ask.

"I would read almanacs on road trips to Florida when I was a kid."

"An almanac taught you about sarcoidosis?"

"No. _House_ taught me about sarcoidosis."

"Oh, God, _that_ show. It's like watching a perverted twelve-year-old singe ants with a magnifying glass at the city park." I take a long drink of coffee. "Who's up for playing something that Blaine can't possibly win?"

But since we can't think of any surefire thing, we end up playing two more rounds of Trivial Pursuit, both of which Blaine wins. Rachel manages to squeeze in a performance of _My Heart Was Home Again_. And then Cooper remembers he has an early morning interview.

"I will be back weekly, little brother," he tells Blaine at the door. "Not for you. For the _food_. Do you know how to make cannoli, Kurt?"

"Mm hmm."

"Incredible," he says. "Tiramisu?"

"Absolutely. It's my favorite."

"Not chocolate brioches?"

"He knows how to make everything," Blaine assures him. "He'll cater for you if you marry that candy stripper – oh, _striper_. Sorry. Freudian slip."

"That was clearly intentional," I sigh. "He apologizes."

"Night, little brother," says Cooper, grinning. "Take care."

"Good night, Coop."

* * *

I watch myself brush my teeth in the foggy mirror. It's late, cold even with the shower running, and I'm exhausted. But it's the good kind of exhaustion, pain mending. The shower shuts off and I look away and smile a little as Blaine gets out, dries off and puts on pajamas. Things change so fast. Lately, everything's changing, and I'm scared. But like my exhaustion, it's the best kind of scared. The very best.

Blaine comes up behind me and pulls me close. I turn around in his embrace and lock my arms around his neck, wrists crossed, toothbrush still in my hand.

"Hey, Stranger," he says softly.

"Hey," I say, equally soft.

"I can't promise that everything will be all right," he says, "but I can promise that I'll try to make everything right, whenever I can, for as long as it takes. You're the love of my life. I will always fight for us."

I look into his eyes. I don't feel saved, or overcome, or even certain. But I feel like I've stepped back into my own body. I feel home again.

"That was so beautiful," I tell him, voice wavering. "I don't know what to say."

"Say that you'll fight too."

"I'll fight too."

We're quiet for a moment, basking in the light of the moment. Then I balance my chin on his shoulder and say, "I get to tell people I'm dating a model."

"I can tell people I fell in love with my designer."

"This reminds me of when you were rehearsing for West Side Story, after opening night." I smile and twirl the toothbrush in my fingers. "I'm still proud to be with you."

"I don't know what I would do if you weren't."

I pull back and kiss him gingerly. "I was so nervous. I know you wanted me not to be, but there was nothing I could do. It was finally unimagined." I focus on the Dalton logo on his tee shirt. "I had imagined every…every breath in the past… but that night, when it was finally real, I forgot everything I imagined…and the bravery that I had built up in my mind came tumbling down and the only thing I was left with was… the moment itself. It's one of the clearest memories I have." I smile softly. "You put on _Lovesong _and I think my heart stopped."

"It's the only song that felt right. It's the prototype, for me at least, because it…it has everything in it. However far away, however long I stay, whatever words I say…"

I rest my forehead against his and breathe in deeply. "I remember how you unbuttoned my shirt so, _so, _slowlyand you said that we could take it button by button if I wanted and I said how we'd have to because of the layers." I pause and look into his eyes. "It was perfect. I'm usually afraid to call something perfect…but it was perfect."

He smiles and then kisses me with the same intensity he kissed me with on the stage that night. I falter along the wall for the light switch, and suddenly, it's dark. I put down my toothbrush. We interlock our fingers and kiss until I forget my own name. It's just him: his mouth and his hands and his weight against my body. There isn't anything else in—

"Kurt! You've been in there fifteen minutes! What are you doing? _Cleaning the toilet_? I need to preen, too, you know! I have a very complicated bedroom routine!"

"Oh, Rachel," I whisper despairingly. "Rachel, Rachel, Rachel."

"I'm going to look like the Wicked Witch of the West tomorrow, Kurt! And where's Blaine?"

"I'll be there in a second," I say, skirting the question.

Blaine and I let go of each other reluctantly. I send him out the door that goes to bedroom, and I slip out the other door to face Rachel.

"All yours," I say, and she makes a face.

I circle back to my room, shut the door and nestle up to Blaine on the bed.

"I said we'd make up for earlier," he says softly, holding my face close to his, "so… how many questions did you answer correctly?"

"Let's say ten."

"Ten it is." He kisses me. "One." He kisses me again. "Two." Another kiss. "Three." Another…

"Or fifty," I murmur.

"Or ten thousand."

"Yes, ten thousand."

It starts to snow around a hundred, and we fall asleep in each other's arms a little while after that, lips tingling, warm all over. My last conscious thought involves my toothbrush, sticky and forgotten on the bathroom counter.

**Aww, I love writing Klaine make-up scenes. Just a couple notes: 1. Blaine truly does look like a young Romney. Look it up! 2. I was NOT bashing **_**House – **_**Kurt ****was. Personally, I think the show kicks ass. 3. Hee hee…the Ohio bet…we all know how that's going to turn out! What do you think Kurt should buy Blaine with the $500 he wins? Tell me! Review! (Please?)**


	8. Bittersweet

**First order of business: I had no idea how confusing the transition from Blaine's perspective to Kurt's perspective (and vice versa) is. Seriously, it looked okay on my computer, but on the website-yikes! So, sorry for the confusion if you had any. I mean, I was confused and I'm the author, so I figure all of you were confused too. If not, you have a higher IQ than me. Hopefully I fixed the problem. Part of it was my computer's fault...this computer is not really mine (belongs to my mom's work, oops) and sometimes it has wild mood swings because it's away from its normal server...or something like that...don't ask me...I have no computer knowledge whatsoever. **

**Secondly – in earlier chapters, I said Sebastian's parents are divorced. From this point forward, assume they are ****not**** divorced, kay? Also, I thought I'd go ahead and put up the big warning banner: I **_**never**_** write M-rated anything, but this chapter gets slightly more graphic (probably a result of watching lots of Darren interviews and realizing that he looks ahhmazing covered in body paint. MUST go to Coachella…look it up…it looks SO incredible.)**

**OHH! That's right. I got my first review! AlexisVeronica (guest reviewer), thank you so much! I'm glad you like Blaine's parents. They are very much like my own dear grandparents. And to my first non-guest reviewer – NicJ, I am forever in your debt! **

**Once again, I don't own Glee. If I did, Blaine and Kurt would be married, and everything would be set on that Moulin Rouge rooftop, and it would always be snowing, and they would always be in suits, and there would be music and sparkling pear soda and clones of them everywhere, because seriously, I need one or two Kurt Hummels running around my house and whipping up delicious desserts and folding my clothes into perfect department store piles and giving me support for my vastly unimportant life. **

**Okay, okay. Long Author's Note over.**

* * *

Kurt keeps his eyes fixed just above my shoulder while he adjusts my tie.

"Off you go," he says, finally lowering his eyes into mine. "Did you sleep at all? I waited to hear your…your steady deep breathing…it's what I always wait for to fall asleep…but it never came last night and…"

"Kurt, are you alright?"

"I'm nervous for you. Your first modeling job?" He smooths his hands over my shoulders and tries a smile. "You're perfect. Don't be self-conscious about your hair. You look like a modern Lancelot."

"I really wish you were coming with me," I tell him.

"I have work, you know that."

"I think Isabelle would give you a break to accompany your boyfriend to a photo shoot," I say, cocking an eyebrow. "It's like the doctor's appointment where you find out whether your baby is a boy or a girl."

He swallows and looks up quickly. "You should go."

"Are you sure you don't want to come with me?"

He shakes his head, clearly alarmed by the thought.

"Kurt…? Kurt, what's…?" I stop myself. "It's alright. I love you, you know."

"I know."

"Do you love me?"

"I love you. You really should go. You're going to miss the subway."

"Kiss for good luck?"

"I'm not going to be the reason you're late."

But he kisses me anyway, softly and suddenly. He turns his head and deepens the kiss, and I make a small, needy noise, drawing him against me.

He pulls away almost immediately. "You really are going to be late."

"It's not worth being late, is it?"

"No, it's not. Your incredible bone structure's going to buy us an apartment in Manhattan."

I sling my bag over my shoulder and go out the door. There's something that wants to pull me back into that apartment, and it's not a good kind of longing. I don't want to leave Kurt alone all day with nothing to distract him but an imaginary backlog of editing. There's something really wrong. I can feel it in my blood. I feel like I've lost something. I feel like it's irrecoverable.

God, Blaine! Breathe in, will you? You can't go into this thinking that your relationship just sank to the bottom of the ocean for no reason at all.

Isabelle called three days ago to say she was serious about me modeling the suits she mentioned over coffee. Kurt told me I was just right for it, but as soon as I called back and agreed, he became remote – but indefinably remote. I could never call him on it. He was silent at meals, but he would talk if I asked him something; he would curl up on the edge of the bed looking like he would bite my hand if it got too close, but when I did touch him, he let me. I didn't feel right asking if everything was alright, because, what if everything was?

I swipe my train card and wait along the platform, but even with the crashing hum of the station, I can't get it off my mind. That kiss felt so wrong to me, some mixture of physical necessity and emotional reluctance, and now a single thought is pounding my brain like my pulse: he's lying, he's lying, he's lying.

When I get to the address Isabelle gave me – a large, brightly lit studio – I'm immediately greeted by a young black man who says he's the photographer's assistant.

"Isabelle's waiting in the back," he tells me, pulling me down various hallways. "She's very excited about this suit line – and she's right, you're perfect for it. We were initially thinking about someone like…oh, Enrique Iglesias…but we decided on someone a little less designing. The suit line is cunning by itself; your role is to make people trust it. You've just got the perfect face for that."

He opens a final door, which leads us into a room with a cherry wood floor and white drapes. I get the sense that I supplanted other, more experienced, more deserving models for this. All this can't be for me. I think I was a last second inspiration.

Isabelle sits in a small folding chair with a clipboard.

"Blaine," she says warmly. "How are you?"

"I'm good, Ms. Wright."

"Oh, call me Isabelle. Now, this is just a trial run. I know it looks very involved, but sometimes, you really do get to fall into Wonderland without paying a price. Normally, we would have you go through an agency, but that's tedious and we need Anna to see this sooner rather than later."

"Anna Wintour is going to see this?"

"What did you think? This is _Vogue_!"

"Oh God."

"It'll be all right," says the assistant, putting his hand on my shoulder. "You're gorgeous."

"Arion – we discussed this! Please do not touch the merchandise!"

"Deepest apologies," he says, removing his hand. "It slipped my mind that you aren't single."

"No worries," I say, and then I turn to Isabelle for direction.

She laughs. "Oh, I'm not in charge. We're waiting for Arion's boss."

"He's always late," says Arion. "I'm always hoping for a chance to step up from understudy. I hear you're a singer?"

I hesitate for a second, and then I remember that I am - and should act like - an elite model.

"Oh, I was the lead at my private school," I tell him, "and the male lead when I transferred to a different school. We won Nationals last year."

"Impressive. How would you describe your style?"

"Classical with a touch of pop, but my voice is really adaptable. We sang everything from West Side Story to Lady Gaga."

"You were Tony in West Side, weren't you?"

"I was."

"I love Broadway," he says, "and I tend to respect stage actors more than film actors. It all so visceral and immediate, don't you think?"

"Definitely. No retakes on stage."

"Exactly," he says. "It's not that film actors aren't talented, but they don't have to access their talent like stage actors; then again, it's like a lava tube, close to the surface."

"We do have a reputation for being volatile," I laugh.

"I'd love to see that side of you sometime," he says.

I turn back to Isabelle, suddenly thankful I don't blush like Kurt. "Sorry, we're leaving you out."

She glances up from her perusal of last month's _Vogue._ "Oh, not at all. Talk to your heart's content. Well, actually, Tyrone's really late - Arion, why don't you prep Blaine on the mood we're going for, and show him the clothes?"

"That's overstepping, but alright."

He takes me by the shoulder and leads me closer to the drapes; there is a black leather couch, slightly to the left of a window that opens into another, darker room.

"So, Blaine, we want you to give the impression that something central has just occurred, keeping in mind that the viewer can never know what that thing was; it can be anything in your mind, but it needs to have something to do with the window, a place of beginnings – or ends. You've just seen something, or someone has just left. The story you create can be anywhere on the spectrum –an ambivalent childhood memory or the realization of Armageddon, but whatever you choose, you should leave viewers with a feeling of dark, utopian, almost supernatural curiosity – not angst. If they wear that suit, they'll experience the same uncertain power you hold. Have you seen _Cosmopolis_?"

"Yes. I still haven't formed an opinion on it."

"Oh, you're finishing my sentences. That's what we want. The feeling you experienced in the last minutes of that film is what we want. Viewers will want to know more…and then their eyes will focus on you…and they'll know that you are the only person who can show them…and yet… they'll know that you never will."

"You're good at this," I say quietly. "I've never done this before and I had no idea how important the…psychology…is. This is really helping."

He smiles, and it's like his monologue threw me into a well, and his white teeth are high, distant lights, unreachable, maybe not even real.

"Shall I show you the collection, now?"

I nod and he leads me into a side room and flicks on the light. There is small collection of clothing hanging on a rack – several shirts, several ties, and one charcoal gray suit.

"Tyrone will decide how to pair these…we shouldn't keep you for more than a couple of hours. It's beautiful, isn't it?"

I take one of the arms of the suit, turn the fabric over in my hand. "It is. It's beautiful."

"Arion?" calls a man's voice.

We turn to see a tall, grizzled man wearing a newsboy cap.

"Ah, Tyrone," says Arion. "This is Blaine Anderson."

Arion probably thinks of himself as bold; I think presumptive is closer to the mark.

I shake Tyrone's hand. "Nice to meet you, Mr.—?"

"It's Tyrone," he says firmly. He turns around and glances at Isabelle. "You said it would be a leap in the dark, but you were right – he's perfect."

I start to question the reality of the moment. It's all too sublime, all too smooth. This room could be a cube, floating around in outer space, attached to nothing, a mere idea.

"Did you prepare him, Arion?"

"I gave him a sense of what we were going for."

"Excellent. Let's begin."

* * *

My phone buzzes. I've just gotten home from the store and I need a cup of tea and a reality television marathon. I don't have to look to see that it's Isabelle or know what it's about. My chest starts to ache a little bit, like there's a thin stream of poison in my veins, displacing the blood, starving my organs, and God, I don't know why. This shouldn't feel bittersweet.

What will the message say? That one more part of my life is gone? That I was kidding myself? That there will always be someone better than me?

If there's anything I hate more than losing, it's being in second place.

I rub my eyes and take a numbing breath before opening the phone.

**Brilliant photo shoot…I feel transported! Lucky devil, you.**

I scroll down and see a photo of Blaine. My breath catches in my throat and I smile softly, surprising myself. The suit's beautiful and so is he…but it's the expression on his face. The careful excess means nothing. He's complete by himself.

What did he think of just before the camera flashed? What's that harrowing softness in his eyes? I don't know. I don't know so many things, but this is the first time in a long time that it feels all right to be left wondering. It's a condition of living – really living – that there will always be holes in your understanding, holes to fall into, holes to be buried in.

Funny how acceptance brings clarity. There it is. His expression...it's bittersweet.

I set down the phone and flop down unceremoniously on the couch. Someone knocks on the door. I don't get up. A knock on the door is usually a solicitor selling candles that smell like cat litter– or missionaries selling tickets to the big straight orgy in the sky.

But the knocking continues. I get up, answer the door and my knees go weak.

"Sebast…Sebastian," I say, almost inaudibly.

Sebastian gives me a doubtful smile. "I'm glad I got the address right."

"D-did Blaine give you this address?"

"Yeah, when we met at the airport."

I set my jaw, debating what to do. I want to send Sebastian away and let my inconsiderate, juvenile, about-to-be-sleeping-alone boyfriend twist in the wind about it, but that doesn't solve anything. So I invite him in. He sets his bags on the couch and looks around.

"Nice place," he says. "Is Blaine here?"

"No. He's in Manhattan at a photo shoot. It was only a matter of time before he became a model." I look down and clear my throat. "So, um, how are you?"

"Look, Kurt, I know this must feel wrong on so many levels, but I feel like I've made a lot of progress. I'm sorry for what happened before."

"Well, the past is the past."

"Yeah, it is, but it's also a part of us, and that part of me is seriously fucked up. So I apologize – what I did to you and Blaine was wrong. Time isn't going to change that it was wrong…I just hope it might change how you see me."

I give him a reserved but sincere smile. "It already has."

"You don't want my head on spike anymore?"

"Maybe just on a platter."

He laughs and asks for the bathroom. I direct him to it, and then I pull out my phone and dial Blaine.

"Hey, Love," he answers.

"Blaine, did you give Sebastian permission to come here?"

He doesn't speak for a minute, and then he says, "Kurt, look, you have to understand—"

"I don't understand. You owe me for even letting him in the door."

"Wait, he's actually there?" He breathes out. "Kurt, I'm sorry. I should have told you, but he didn't call or anything. I would have let you know if he had called."

"Oh, that's reassuring," I snap. "I'm so glad I'm that far down on the flowchart. Will you let me know if God calls, or do I have to wait for Him to fax you something first?"

"Kurt, I—"

"You had no right to do this, Blaine!"

"Okay, okay! I'm sorry, all right? I'll make it up to you."

I shift on my feet. "When are you going to be here?"

"In about an hour."

"Well, hurry, all right?"

"Oh, now you miss me?"

"No, I miss my human shield."

"Uh huh," he says, unconvinced. "Well, I love you."

I look down and smile. "What was it like?"

"It was kind of eerie, to be honest."

I laugh. "Well, no one would guess. Isabelle sent me a picture…and it… Blaine, it was magnificent."

"Wow," he breathes. "Thank you. They told me it was good…but your opinion's the only one that matters."

"I have to go," I whisper. "I need to make out the couch for Satan."

He laughs and hesitates just long enough that I know he wants to tell me something, but he says goodbye instead. I set my phone down and Sebastian comes out of the hallway with raised eyebrows.

"Is there a girl living here?"

"Ha," I say dully, taking off my jacket and shoes.

"No, I'm serious."

"Blaine didn't tell you about Rachel?"

"That's right," he groans. "

"Look, Sebastian," I say, standing up straighter. "I'm going to lay down the rules for you. If you so much as make eyes at Blaine, you're out. If you get him drunk again, you're out."

"No ogling, no drinking," he assures me.

"And no gay jokes."

"Nice blouse," he says immediately.

"That's what I mean."

"Lighten up. I'm no longer that guy."

"Great. I'm no longer an insecure doormat."

"Still a wet blanket."

"Well, coming from someone who burned his own flame right out, I take that as a compliment. What do you want for dinner?"

"Whatever you usually make."

"Kurt Hummel never _usually _makes anything."

"See, there you go!" he says enthusiastically. "There's the Kurt I was waiting for!"

I shoot him a halfhearted warning glance and go into the kitchen. He follows me and sits on a bar stool.

"Are you flirting with me?" he asks.

I open up a container of goat cheese. "Yeah. Want to go make out?"

He leans back, seeming relieved I can joke. "What are you cooking?"

"Pasta."

"What kind?"

"What do you want, a recipe card?"

We continue like this for a while, and then Rachel shows up, toting a young man who I assume is Brody. Her mouth forms a humorless "O" when she enters the kitchen and sees Sebastian. And instead of carefully evaluating the situation, what does she do? She goes all Santana on us.

"Over my dead body, Kurt!" she erupts. "How dare you! Blaine's the love of your life and you're cheating with this tinny-voiced freak of nature? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?"

I stare at her, speechless, and then Sebastian says, "Calm down, Anne Frank. We're not sneaking around."

"Wow, that was like really racist," says Brody.

"Wow, I like don't give a crap," Sebastian replies. "Who are you?"

"His name is Brody Weston," says Rachel waspishly. "And he's straight."

"Not my type, anyway."

"If you're going to start a melee, kindly do it in the living room," I say, pointing out of the kitchen with a spoon. "And don't break the mosaic coffee table."

"You don't want to get into a _melee_ with me," growls Brody.

"What, with a ballerina?"

"Ballerina and proud. I get to lift girls in tiny costumes _over my head_."

"You look like a hooker."

"You look like a pedophile."

Sebastian and Brody stare hard at each other, and then Sebastian holds out his hand.

"You're all right."

"You too."

I sigh, lean against the counter and vacantly cut up butternut squash. _Men_.

* * *

I push against the door, but it only opens a few inches. "Kurt?"

His face appears in the gap a second later, radiant and flushed and smiling; warm air floods out over me; something smells good and I hear laughter in the background.

"Sorry," he whispers, lifting something out of the way. "Sebastian didn't move his bags."

The door swings open and I gaze briefly at him, impoverished. He pulls me inside and into a kiss. I didn't realize how chilled I had gotten until now. I want to stay in his arms the rest of the night… just motionless in his arms the rest of my life.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," he says against my lips.

"You too," I mumble.

He pulls back slightly. "Sorry for how I acted this morning. _Vogue_'s my everything right now and it was hard to see Isabelle instantly love you like she loved me. It was the wrong response. I shouldn't have been jealous." His glances at me. "Why are you smiling?"

"I thought you'd had some ugly revelation about me. You were just jealous?"

"Banal, I know."

I laugh. We stay concealed in the foyer for a minute. He takes off my jacket and I lean against him, solaced. It hurts to think that I'll be nostalgic for this one day, and suddenly I want things like an overdone wedding and an absurdly long hyphenated last name and nights of talking to each other in French even though I don't know it and…

"I love you, Kurt."

He glances up. He's startled, his eyes filled with this inviting, sheltered brightness. There must have been something in my voice.

"I love you, too, Blaine." He smiles like he's coming out of a reverie. "What did you think of when they took that picture of you?"

I take both of his hands and say, "I pictured myself watching you perform at Gershwin Theater after finding out…that I would never sing again."

He stares at me, hollow, hands tightening around mine. "Why would you...?"

"They told me to look enigmatic…so I thought of something both good and bad that I myself would never be able to fully understand or accept."

He looks down and I see his throat tighten.

"I never want you to hurt like that," he says in a strained voice. "I would do anything to keep you from getting hurt like that."

"Kurt," I whisper, lifting his chin. "Hey, look at me."

His eyes finally wander back into mine, lashes dark with moisture. He shakes his head. "You must care about me so much if you…if you would be willing to even think about something like that…if you would be willing to stay and support me even after you lost everything."

"I'll never lose everything unless I lose you."

I kiss him and he laughs. A few tears jump down his face. "God, I love you so much."

"I love you, too."

"Aw, straight flush!" roars Sebastian from the other room. "Sorry fellas!"

"Who's he playing poker with?"

"Rachel's man candy, Brody Weston."

"That is _not _ what I wanted to do tonight."

"Me neither," he sighs, "but there's pasta and zabaglione."

"Oh, zabaglione."

"You have no idea what that is, do you?"

"No idea."

He sighs. "It's Italian pudding made with Marsala wine. It's delicious."

"How did you buy wine?"

"Brody went out and got some."

I press my lips together and nod. "Really excellent."

"Listen," he says, leaning close. "We're going to curl up on the sofa in the corner …and ignore everyone…and be the first ones to go to bed. And we'll—"

"I hear your silver voice over there, Blaine!" calls Sebastian. "Get in here and watch me win this poker game!"

Kurt and I glance at each other a last time and go into the living room. Sebastian grins behind a fan of cards and gets up to greet me.

"I hear you've been modeling casually." He shakes my hand. "Nice to see you again."

"Nice to see you, too," I say. "So, what happened?"

"Ah, ah, ah – no!" intercuts Kurt. "You're eating something before getting into that. I'll get you a plate." He leans and kisses my temple before walking to the kitchen.

I look down in an attempt to hide my smile. "What would I do without him?"

"You'd learn to make something other than Cup O'Noodles," Sebastian replies.

"That's true." I turn to Brody and we shake hands. "Nice to meet you. I'm Blaine Anderson, Kurt's boyfriend."

"Brody Weston, Rachel's boyfriend."

"I would say we're in the _pre_-boyfriend stage," she says, looking up from a heavily highlighted issue of _Vogue_.

"Is there really such a thing as a _pre-_boyfriend stage?" asks Kurt, coming back into the living room and handing me a plate piled with enough pasta to feed a family of polygamists.

"Yes," says Rachel primly. "It's those delicate few weeks where you try to show restraint so you don't come off like a rabid dog."

"Well, in that case, Blaine failed the pre-boyfriend stage," Kurt says, tugging me over to the couch and offering me freshly cracked black pepper. "He got drunk and kissed Rachel – first base, maybe second - and then there was the _Gap Attack_."

"Could we please give it a rest?" I ask.

"You'll never live it down," Kurt declares. "_Kissed a Girl _will be your epitaph, right underneath _Rightly and Eternally Banned from the Gap."_

I laugh and take a bite of pasta. "Not if I – wow, this is really good."

Kurt squeaks with delight and Brody jumps.

"Sorry, sorry," breathes Kurt. "Food approval is my kryptonite."

"It's delicious," I tell him and kiss him lightly on the mouth. "Everything you make is."

He beams, and then he looks away, flushed and jumpy.

I suddenly remember Sebastian. "Hey – do you want to tell us how you got here?"

"We'll talk about it later," he says. "Rachel and Brody don't want to hear it."

"Hear what?" asks Rachel.

"About my homophobic parents. Believe me, you don't. Let's talk about Dalton – Blaine, guess what song we're doing for Sectionals?"

"I have no idea."

"Flo Rida – _Whistle_."

"Great," says Kurt blandly. "A song about blow jobs."

"I'm glad I don't have to sing that one," I say, horrified. "I wouldn't want people to picture my face in that context."

"They already do," Sebastian assures me. "But in all seriousness – we _kill _that song. It's flawless."

"Who's got the solo?"

"Well, I should have, but Hunter Clarington got it, " he replies. "He thinks he replaced you, but he's not nearly as good as you. Our boy band is missing its heartthrob." Kurt glares at him and he holds up his hands in surrender. "Nothing more than an observation. Seriously, we're lacking our caramelly richness – and individuality! We look like the Army Corps of Showchoir Singers."

I slide off the couch, sit cross-legged in front of the table and start reshuffling cards. Kurt rests his chin on my head and rubs my shoulders.

"In my opinion, that's what they always wanted," I say. "They wanted a machine."

"It is – and we're good. We're going to crush the New Directions and their bulimic elfin lead – oh, sorry, that wasn't politically correct."

"It was incredibly insensitive, actually," says Kurt briskly.

"In any case, we're practically a shoe-in."

"I think your overconfidence will sink you," snips Rachel. "The New Directions—"

"Lost their two best singers _and _their teacher – Shuester is leaving for Washington D.C. if hearsay is correct."

"They'll build a strong group again," insists Rachel. "Maybe not this year, but I believe in them."

"You didn't even meet the new members. What do you think, Blaine?"

"Marley's peaches and cream. She's faultless. Jake's really good, too, and he can dance. Ryder's sort of all purpose, like Finn. They've got everything on their side except enough time. I know it's just the beginning of the year, but we weren't cohesive enough for a Sectionals win, even when I was still there."

"Tells it like it is," says Sebastian appreciatively.

"_But_," I go on pointedly, "it doesn't sound like the Warblers have enough appeal, whereas everyone will fall in love with Marley."

"On my last espionage excursion," says Sebastion, "I met Marley. She's sweet, pretty, feminine – and she could be knocked over by a feather. She's not nearly confident enough to lead New Directions. I mean, anyone who's made a habit of throwing up their lunch every day…"

"She'll get there," I say. "She just needs some encouragement."

"No, she won't. They need you or Rachel or Kurt."

"Did he just include me?" Kurt asks sarcastically. "Pinch me."

"Yeah, did I?" rumbles Sebastian. "What a slip-up."

"Okay, what went down between you two?" asks Brody.

"He was on a mission to sleep with Blaine. How did it end? With Blaine in the hospital."

"Rock salt slushied," whispers Rachel.

Brody shakes his head. "You've got some serious guts to let him in your house, Kurt."

Sebastian nods and says, "You do. Thanks."

Kurt smiles, face peaked in surprise.

"Aw!" says Rachel, reaching her arms around Kurt and tugging him away from me. "Isn't this nice? It's magical, isn't it? Now who wants zabaglione?"

Rachel takes Brody down to the subway after a while, leaving me, Kurt and Sebastian sitting around the coffee table, surrounded by empty zabaglione cups.

"I'll go to bed," says Kurt. "I know you probably just want to talk to Blaine."

"No," says Sebastian. "I'd like to tell you, too."

Kurt hesitates.

"I want to get better and you're the sanest person I know."

"Sane," Kurt says in a breathy laugh, like the suggestion was deeply off the mark.

"So you'll stay? I think you could help me."

"I didn't go through what you did," Kurt says stubbornly.

"You've been protested against. I'm new at that."

Kurt swipes his finger around the inside of a pudding glass. "If you insist."

Sebastian smiles and then he sighs. "So…a few days ago, my parents told me that they wouldn't pay for college until I stopped being gay."

"Stopped being gay?" asks Kurt.

"They believe it's a choice. They believe it's about politics. Anyway, a month ago, I got this…this flu. But it didn't feel exactly like the flu and I had this creeping feeling in me, and I couldn't face my parents' normal doctor, so I drove to a clinic that does free testing…I didn't even react when I got the test results. I think in the back of my mind, it's what I was always waiting for…you know, that final blow. I would have been more surprised if I was clean…and it wasn't just HIV…and I have no idea how many guys I…it's not like I had names and phone numbers. I couldn't let any of them know." He rubs the back of his head and I glance over at Kurt, who is absorbed, a look of crystalline sadness in his eyes. "I researched it for a couple weeks…realized I should be on meds…but I couldn't legally use my savings, and there was insurance and other issues. It's hard to hear you probably have ten or twenty years cut off your life and I just…I needed my parents to get it. If they were ever going to get it, that's when I needed it. And I was so…humiliated. They had just told me that I needed to get my life together and I had to tell them that about the HIV?" His eyes fill up and he runs his hand under his nose. "I didn't know how to say it, so I just, just said it…and…"

"Sebastian," Kurt says softly, "we're not going to judge you. We don't do that."

"They told me I got what I deserved and said they weren't going to pay for my treatment…and then Dad called his friend who's on the board at Harvard…told him I wouldn't be going there in the fall…and then they kicked me out."

"Out on the street?" I ask.

He shrugs. "I slept next to the tennis courts at Dalton."

Kurt stares at him, rigid. "Sebastian, you should tell the police."

"I'll be eighteen in a month. It's not worth it. They're all in Dad's pocket, anyway. Mom would go to law enforcement benefits with bruises on her face and it was only ever "How are you, Mrs. Smythe?" "I see you're doing well, Mrs. Smythe" and "Where did you get that lovely pin, Mrs. Smythe?" No one cared about her and no one will care about me."

"He would hit your mom?" Kurt asks.

"Not all the time. It depended on how much he drank." Sebastian shakes his head. "You would think it would be a common enemy dynamic…but she…she's afraid of him, and afraid to lose him, and so she just…just fits into that little role."

"Are they…religious?"

"No, not at all. In fact, they're averse to any sort of guiding philosophy. Dad's a pig. Alcohol, Playboy, racing…and mom's a petty, selfish coward. There's nothing new or interesting about them. They're just the worst of their generation." He rubs his lip in thought. "One time, they were hosting an open house, and I was playing outside and I tripped and cut myself. So I came inside – I think I was about seven – and instead of taking care of me, Mom shut me up in my room so that the guests wouldn't see a bleeding little boy running around. I guess, part of the reason I was so attracted to Blaine was because I thought he might have a similar situation…?"

"No. My parents are flighty and unenlightened, but they're harmless. They're just living on Jupiter."

Kurt smiles. "I think they're farther out than that. One time they caught me sneaking out of Blaine's room in the middle of the night, and what do they do? Offer me a cheese sandwich and ask if I would like to watch Leno with them."

I shake my head. "Why don't I know this story, Kurt?"

"I thought I would spare your parents the embarrassment."

"They don't know _how_ to be embarrassed, Kurt. One time at a dog show, mom tripped on her skirt and it tore and she was standing there in these awful magenta leggings and she finished the competition like that."

Sebastian's mouth hangs half open. "How did you turn out…okay?"

"He's not okay," says Kurt. "He's a dweeb, a very dapper dweeb, but still a dweeb. His room's a candy store of 80's music, fantasy literature, Buckeyes memorabilia, these weird polo magazines…and he's hopelessly flamboyant…as demonstrated in _It's Not Unusual_."

"Hopelessly flamboyant?" I demand.

"You wore bright yellow sunglasses."

"And…?"

"Skin-tight red pants."

"You know you loved that."

"You lit a piano on fire, Blaine."

Sebastian looks back and forth at us. "You two continually surprise me."

Kurt laughs and then his grin slides into a thoughtful smile. "Do you want to tell us the rest of the story?"

Sebastian shrugs. "I used some of my own money to get a plane ticket. This was…the first place I thought of."

"So, earlier, when you were talking about Sectionals…?"

"Wishful thinking. It's okay. They—"

"It's not okay," says Kurt. "There's no excuse for your parents treating you like that."

"That's nice to hear, but what if your son just slept around and—"

"We wouldn't love him any less," says Kurt.

"I'm not sure it's about love. Someone can love you and still treat you badly."

"What kind of love is that?"

"It's love that no one should have let happen. They shouldn't have had me. They're insular and selfish and everything is a task on a checklist."

"This probably sounds premature," says Kurt, "but you shouldn't go back to them. If something gets to the point of ultimatums and disownings…something's too broken to fix."

I look at Sebastian looking at Kurt and feel a twinge. He's fixated. Kurt's mending him. I'm oddly invisible to them both.

I feel like a witness to a sacred passage. Kurt's…brilliant.

"I know you're right," Sebastian tells him. "But where do I go?"

"You can stay here as long as you need and then you can keep going to Dalton. It's a good school, Sebastian. You won't need your parents to pay for college if you work really hard there."

Sebastian looks down uncomfortably. "You can't know how bad I feel for having it out for you. You're the last person on earth who deserves that." He rests his head on his hand. "What about the Dalton tuition? My parents pay that, too."

"Are you close with any of the teachers? They could probably have the bills go to you."

"I could ask Mr. McNamir," he says. "And I think I could cover the tuition for next semester without my parents."

"Don't be afraid to ask people for help, Sebastian," Kurt tells him intently. "Your parents are the ones who are wrong, not you."

"Why…why are you doing this for me?"

"I don't know what I would have done if my dad didn't understand. No one should have to go through that."

"But this is your opportunity to turn away and let me suffer the consequences."

"Why would I pick that? The best choice is the one that minimizes everyone's suffering. Let's just say it's good for my Karma."

"I won't let you down. Your mom will think she hired a maid."

Kurt smiles. "Well, it's Finn's mom, actually. My mom died."

"Oh, I'm sorry. When did you lose her?"

"Ten years ago. I barely remember her to be honest. It just feels like a hole."

I grip Kurt's hand under the table. We haven't talked about his mom a lot – he believes that repression is better than supposed resolution – but it must sting. I don't think he was able to lock her away completely. She consumes him at strange times, like when he's eating a certain kind of fruit or listening to a specific song. He insists he doesn't remember why those things affect him. He has the black emotion but has lost his memory of everything, even the good things. I don't know if anything could be worse.

"But that's better than what you have," Kurt says suddenly. "Wouldn't you rather have no parents than bad parents?"

Sebastian looks down. For an instant, I think he's smiling; then I see he's trying not to cry.

"I just, it was, " he sucks in some air, "maybe if I wasn't gay, if I wasn't a slut—"

Kurt reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. "None of this is your fault, and I'm sorry if I sound cavalier about your parents, but…"

"No," says Sebastian. "I mean yes. But you're right. That's why it's hard to hear."

Kurt hands him a Kleenex and he wipes his nose.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, gesturing at his eyes. "I didn't mean to do this."

"I think you needed to."

He laughs and coughs. "Yeah, clearly."

"I'll go get you some hot chocolate," says Kurt, standing up. "Don't say no."

Sebastian smiles at the ground and doesn't look up until we hear Kurt clinking around in the kitchen. He takes another Kleenex and then rests his hands in his lap, used up.

"How are you doing?" I ask softly.

He shrugs. "I feel unwanted, but Kurt really… he really helped."

I smile and glance at Kurt in the kitchen, turning his head upside down to check that he measured the milk correctly.

"You really love him, don't you?" Sebastian asks, following my eyes.

"He's my soul mate."

"I know I have a destructive instinct…but I think I'm a good read of people and I could tell when I first met you two. I mean, beyond the bashful schoolboy persona and the I'm-not-nearly-as-involved-with-this-guy-as-I'd-li ke-you-to-think thing."

"What did you expect him to act like? I ask. "Did you expect him to present me to you with an apple in my mouth?"

"No," laughs Sebastian. "I thought it was hilarious, though. You two were painfully chaste. Like, I could smell it on you."

"Well, let's just say that my second performance of Tony was more convincing than the one on opening night."

"Oh-oh!" roars Sebastian. "Tony and Officer Krupke!"

"You better not be kissing and telling, Blaine!" calls Kurt from the kitchen.

"It's just the SparkNotes Version!" I yell back.

"Oh, that makes me feel better!"

I laugh. He comes in with a tray of white chocolate cocoa and we all drink a large mug of it, talking about deliciously insignificant things and passing around more outlandish family stories. When Rachel gets home, she shimmies into the living room and takes my place next to Kurt, sends me to the kitchen and orders me to do the dishes. Well, okay. For about an hour, I listen to the rustle of cards and the clink of cups, the whiny faucet and the sirens outside. I smile every time Kurt laughs. He laughs a lot. There's finally a feeling of parallelism, or reciprocity, at the very least. We don't hold onto each other so tightly anymore.

After everyone's in bed, Kurt comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my chest.

"C'mon, B," he whispers. "Let's go to bed."

He moves his hands down my arms. His fingers are smooth against mine, which spent too much time in soapy water. I smile, turning around on the bar stool, and he presses against me in a soft kiss. He catches his thumbs in my belt loops and briefly pulls back to look at me.

"Mm, I want you so much."

Then his mouth recaptures mine. I move my hands over his ass and he knots his hands in my hair, sliding one of his legs between mine. My blood rushes out of my head and a shiver, cold and then hot, washes over me. I try to say his name but he immediately deepens the kiss through my parted lips. I can barely suppress a groan. I dip my fingers under the waistband of his pants and feel his lips curve slightly against mine. He rolls his hips closer to mine and then we're spiraling. All I can think of is his nimble mouth, his silky fingertips circling my hipbones …

"_Fuck_," I whisper.

Kurt pulls back, his eyes almost completely dark with desire.

"God, I love that you're not posh when we're doing this," he says, storming my mouth with another heady kiss.

We stand up and back into the bedroom, undressing each other feverishly. I feel like I've memorized the pattern his abdominal muscles make, the magnetic pattern that always leads my fingers to the same place.

He falls back on the bed, my body following his; he leans slightly forward on his elbows and we look at each for a moment. His eyes sparkle turquoise, a color I only see when he's this close, this visible. Oh, his eyes…his beautiful, ever-changing glazs eyes, like little earths, so far away and so close at the same. I want to fall into them and never resurface.

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Well?"

I laugh, and then I press an open-mouthed kiss against his clavicle. He leans back and moans, as if we are completely, eternally alone together. I decide that I never want to hear another voice. Every sound that passes over his lips is celestial.

My mouth follows one of the lines his muscles make. It's just connected with his bellybutton when his hands tighten on my shoulders. He turns me so that I'm underneath him, and then he props himself up to study me.

"Kurt, what are you doing?"

"I'm memorizing what this feels like."

He runs his hand through my hair and kisses me, a soft but deep kiss. I hum against his mouth and we hold each other tighter, trembling with awareness.

When I'm lying still an hour later, I smile at the memory of that moment. I press closer to him, nestling my face into a comfortable nook in his neck, his skin impossibly cool under my swirling, vacant fingertips

"I've never heard you swear that much," he observes.

My eyelids are already starting to falter, but I laugh. He runs his fingers through my irreparably mussed hair a last time.

"Blaine?"

I mumble inarticulately. He tilts my chin up and kisses my mouth softly. "B?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

"I love you too."

He smiles and rubs his fingers down my neck. Then he forms his pillow into a more comfortable shape and crooks his arm underneath his head, eyes fluttering shut. We fall asleep, a tangle of limbs and cast-off clothing, so blissful with what we have that it seems like we have everything.

* * *

I open my eyes and focus them on the stoplight-red, sans-serif numbers on the clock. Oh, damn it. _Damn it_. It's 9:24.

I turn over and stumble towards the closet before realizing I'm only wearing a sock. I whip it off, exasperated, and pull on a robe. I choose an outfit blindly, something that causes my stomach to twist, and rush into the kitchen. I press two pieces of white bread into the toaster. When they pop up, I clamp them in my mouth, pick up my bags, and whisk towards the door. Someone – Blaine – grabs my elbow at the last second and kisses the side of my mouth.

"Have a good day," he says quickly.

I smile around the bread and nod. The door clicks shut between us and I jog down the stairs. I miss the train I was aiming for and am forced to wait several minutes for the next one. Chase texts me.

**Where are you? Meeting's starting.**

**Forgot to set my alarm clock. Boyfriend's back in town.**

**What do you want me to tell Isabelle?**

**The truth? What kind of mood is she in?**

**Anna's happy with her, so you could probably run over her dog and she'd forgive you.**

**Why's Anna happy with her?**

**The peaked lapel photo shoot.**

I gape at the phone as the train clunks to a stop in front of me. Anna Wintour liked Blaine's amateur photo shoot? The same Anna Wintour that liked _my_ makeover video, the video that practically saved Isabelle's design company?

**She liked it that much?**

**Anna's going to write the model a five thousand dollar check and says she wants to take him out to lunch.**

My heart contracts. I was sure this was over. The photos were breathtaking, truly…but Anna Wintour taking a personal interest? That could mean the start of a celebrity modeling career, years of high-profile, profitable photo shoots, an immersion in men more interesting than I could ever hope to be…I feel like I'm being squeezed too tightly.

Things that shouldn't be irrelevant – like Blaine not actually wanting to be a model– are quickly becoming that way, and I'm consumed by scorching, isolating jealousy again. Even as his scent, the texture of his skin, the depth of his eyes rush back to me, I resent him, hate him even, that part of him.

I get on the train, still fixated on my phone.

**Tell Isabelle I'll be there in an hour.**

**Sounds good.**

* * *

**I AM STUCK AT HOME AND BORED OUT OF MY MIND. When will I learn to drive? UGH. I am such a sad excuse for a teenager. I sit around all day, take care of my aunt's dogs, and eat too many cupcakes. At least I don't throw them at my walls. ; )**

**Not that my room ISN'T a mess...KFC boxes, makeup, old newspapers, dogs lying around, clothing EVERYWHERE, water bottles with water so old it's grown algae. My future roommates are going to hate me very, very much.**

**So, anyway, what did you think of this chapter? Personally, I thought it was kind of weird. It was one big kaleidoscope of angst and fluff, plus some wankiness. I think I will like the next one better...**

**But my MAIN question is...Seb's parents? Are the sufficiently nasty? **

**I still consider myself review homeless, so any and all reviews are welcomed! If I get ten, all reviewers get ice cream, a puppy and a chance to meet Darren. _  
_**

**I'm wacky lying right now. But reviews WILL be met with enthusiasm and internet love! Not as good, is it? Alas...**

**Love y'all. (IT'S CHO CHANG!) **


	9. Ghosts

**Hello my lovely readers! I'm in a fighty mood, so this is a somewhat fighty chapter. It features mild insanity, violence, and Blaine's middle name – which is something I hate deeply. C'mon, RIB! Devon? Why couldn't it have been Matthew or Nicholas? Or something dapper, such as Foxworth or Lyndell? Blaine Foxworth Anderson is a very well-dressed name indeed.**

**Okay, rant over. This chapter is dedicated to psonny97, because your review made me laugh. And oh yes, Sebastian's parents will be completely off their rockers (they won't be in this chapter, probably the one after the next one!)Tell me if I write insanity accurately. Considering that I myself am completely out of my mind half the time, I should be good at it.**

**This chapter is going to be booby-trapped with bad decisions, so bring pepper spray. XD**

* * *

My work day is not what I would call serene. As soon as I walk through the frosted glass doors, Isabelle's on me about typing meeting notes and filing last year's collection of "shoe ideas" and she also wants me on a conference call, and oh, did she mention that Heather – another intern – is sick and I'll have to cover? No, she didn't.

"Was your alarm clock really the problem?" she goes on, rounding a corner and tugging me with her.

"Part of the problem," I say.

"Well, we'll have to get you one that works – I am _swamped_ this week."

"It won't be a problem again."

"I think it will continue to be a problem until you get that gorgeous boyfriend out of your life," she kids. "I would never want to leave my house if he lived there. I would have personally taken that boy out of high school if I knew how much Anna would love him. You're quite a pair. You should author a book called "The Innumerable Times My Boyfriend and I saved Vogue."

It's too bad I actually had to work for it. He was just born with a beautiful face and a good modeling instinct. _Turn into a pose_. I hear Cooper's voice in the back of my head and nearly snarl. Go back to the Simon Le Bon impressions, will you?

"Here's Ms. Wintour's number," she says, grabbing a notepad off someone's desk. She writes it out and hands it to me. "Be sure to give that to him. She's expecting a call sometime later today." She lowers her voice. "She said she would just like to meet him, but if you want my opinion, I think she's eyeing him for another photo shoot."

"Oh, really?" I ask, forcing a smile.

"Incredible, right?" she asks, beaming.

"Silver spoon," I say. "Want those meeting notes, now?"

"Mm hmm…Chase can read them off to you."

I meet Chase in his office and he grins. "So when am I going to get to meet the sparkly new boyfriend?"

"He's not a _new_ boyfriend," I snap, opening my laptop. "Just read me the meeting notes please."

"Do you need to talk about something?"

Do I need to talk about something? Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I'm adrift in a sea of unfounded admiration for my similarly good-looking and talented boyfriend – admiration _I _never get - and I'm getting seasick. I know things about him that would curdle milk, but no one ever talks about those things_._ And meanwhile, I'm unworthy of his majesty, lucky just to occupy his shadow and scuffle around in his trash bin for anything he's lost interest in.

He didn't even ask if he could move in with me. He just showed up in a little reed basket and expected me to accept him, and…and how can I blame him? We're in love.

I sigh and lean against the desk. "No. I'm just tired."

Isabelle sticks her head in the door. "How are those notes coming?"

I smile half-heartedly. "We're getting there."

"Coffee in my office in ten?" she asks brightly.

"Sure."

She flashes her fingers in a wave and disappears down the hallway. I sit down across from Chase and he reads off points from this morning's meeting. Removed black fringe from parasol line. Thank God. Altered neckline on the Spring 2013 jacket series. Changed fabric on the Parisian ties…

The rest of the day is a muddle of responsibilities. When I go to leave at six o clock, I spot the phone number on my desk. Quietly, I pick it up, smooth it out, and insert it into the shredder.

* * *

When I get home, I find Blaine asleep on the sofa, curls tumbling over his face. Evita is playing in the background and the smell of baked goods radiates from the kitchen. I find a plate of chocolate chip walnut cookies and a note. Aw, Blaine.

_You're the only light I'll ever need. I love you. Wake me up?_

The corners of my mouth are helplessly drawn up in a smile. I lean against the counter and eat a cookie – which is perfectly gooey and crunchy – and listen to the rain for a moment before sitting on the couch next to him. I move his hair out of his face and kiss him. His eyes flutter open and meet mine.

"Hey, Babe."

He tugs me back into a kiss before I can respond. I smile against his lips.

"You taste like chocolate," he murmurs.

"The cookies are delicious."

"I couldn't get my mind off you all day." He kisses me again. "You look tired. Do you want a back rub?"

"Why have you been so affectionate lately?"

"Because you're damn near flawless?"

"You're…you're just everything," I whisper, kissing him one more time.

We sit up and I lean my head on his shoulder.

"Want to watch a movie?" I ask.

"Mmm," he says. "I do. Which one?"

"It doesn't matter. We're going to ignore it, anyway."

"You make movies very easy to ignore," he says sincerely. "Especially in those pants."

He kisses me, lightly biting my bottom lip, and then in one swift movement, he's pinned me underneath him.

"You know what I want to learn to do?" he asks.

"What?"

"Undo a button with my teeth. Will you let me practice?"

"How do you even come up with things like that?"

He grins wolfishly. "I don't know. What do you say?"

"What do you think?"

He grins again and presses his mouth against that sweet spot where my neck meets my shoulder. I make a growly sound and let my head fall to the side.

"Mm, B."

"Oh, good, free pornography," says Sebastian in a loud, lazy voice.

Blaine and I jump away from each other. I feel myself turn fuchsia. Blaine presses his fingers to his forehead like he has a migraine

"Sebastian, what are you doing?" he complains.

Sebastian takes a seat in an armchair across from us. "Um, using the living room?"

"_We_ were using the living room," argues Blaine.

"I noticed. Seriously, can you keep your hands to yourself for two seconds?"

"It's our house!"

"It's not your house until you're paying part of the rent," says Rachel, coming into the living room with an eye mask shoved over her hair like a headband. "And can you keep it down? I was trying to take a nap because last night I had to sleep with uncomfortable ear plugs, no thanks to you two."

"Zesty!" says Sebastian.

"Oh, merciful god," I mumble. "There is no word for how turned off I am right now."

"Thanks _so much_," Blaine snaps at Sebastian.

"My pleasure," he replies, flicking on the television and clicking through a few channels. A hippogriff appears on the screen.  
"Perfect. Harry Potter marathon."

"_Baby you're not alone! Cause I'm here with you! And nothing's ever gonna—"_

_"_Blaine!" Rachel says sharply. "I'm in a bad mood with you and hearing you sing that is not helping."

"—_bring us down cause nothing can keep me from loving you! And you know it's true_!"

"BLAINE!"

"WHAT?"

"I don't want to hear AVPM songs right now! They were stuck in my head all summer!"

"AVPM kicks ass, Rach," he says.

"The guy who plays Harry – super cute," Sebastian adds.

"I don't think so," says Blaine before continuing to sing. "_Oh it don't matter what'll come to be, our love is all we need to make it through_."

I smile. "I like this song. It's very sweet."

He turns and kisses me softly. "I like it too."

"All right, all right," drawls Sebastian. "Love love lovey love love. Now will you watch the goddamn movie?"

"Well, if you had asked that nicely before…" mutters Blaine, lacing his fingers with mine.

"You're really going to negotiate with a terrorist?" I whisper.

"Do we have anything better to do?"

"I'm going to pretend you didn't ask me that."

He laughs and nestles against me. "Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder."

"Yes, yes it does!" Rachel says adamantly. "I would be _much_ fonder of you, Blaine, if you subscribed to that philosophy."

"That's not even how that quote goes," I say hopelessly.

"You guys – shut up!" Sebastian roars, turning up the volume on the TV. "WATCH THE MOVIE!"

"Yes, Mom," says Blaine.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

We get to the middle of the fifth movie – between Blaine and Sebastian, I hear about fifty jokes about Umbridge being sexually ambiguous– before Rachel insists we watch something more "mature."

"The movie's mature enough," I mutter. "The viewers aren't."

"I hope that wasn't directed at me," murmurs Blaine. He has his head in my lap, face tucked into my side, and I'm rubbing a circle on his temple like he's silver that needs buffing. He'll fall asleep before long. His limbs are loose and his mouth is tilted in a peaceful smile.

"It was most certainly directed at you."

"I'm glad I'm not possessed by a satanic dark lord."

I smile. "Me too, B."

He reaches blindly for my hand. When I give it to him, he brings it up to his mouth and individually kisses my knuckles. Like it's from another life, the phone number surfaces in my subconscious. But who will ever know?

* * *

_I'm standing in a murky apartment. The floor is laminated with gold and yellow hexagons, like in Dad's shop. The chartreuse windows, which barely let in any light, are familiar too. There's a pair of boots by the door, sitting in a puddle of water. The phone – an old dial one – rings and I answer it. Something's gone wrong with Blaine. I pull on the boots, and despite the fact they were my third grade snow boots, they fit. I start walking down a wet, peopleless street. It's the street McKinley High is on. Ahead of me, I can make out some sort of – accident? Explosion? I don't know. I don't feel alarmed, even though I know that's where Blaine is and that he's dead. That's what they said on the phone. Identify a body. It feels more like an errand than a loss._

_I keep walking. As I round the corner of the high school, Azimio and Karofsky appear and throw snowballs at me. I try to retaliate, but my arms won't work. My voice won't either. As quickly as they appeared, they disappear and are replaced by several faceless, hooded attackers. I'm taken by the arms and dragged into a dark pocket of an alley. I'm trying to scream. I'm trying so hard, but my throat won't open up, won't let anything more than a whisper out. I kick my feet and watch the tips of my shoes – no longer boots, but my favorite cap-toed Alexander McQueens – bounce. In fact, looking down at myself, I realize I'm in a suit. I don't understand._

_I'm dropped into a corner. One of the assailants stands over me, removes his hood and – Blaine? Wait – and is that a –_

_My voice returns in a screech. "Blaine! It's me It's Kurt! IT'S KURT! Blaine! P-plea—!"_

_He pulls the trigger emotionlessly._

"Kurt! Kurt! Wake up!"

I wrench forward, throwing the covers off me. I'm saturated with sweat and I'm shaking.

Blaine's voice is soft, his face wrinkled in concern. "Nightmare?"

"I should have given you the number!" I say hysterically. "I should have given you the number!"

Blaine's eyes darken in fear. "Kurt, are you all right?"

I look around the room, frantic, watched, floating a mile out of reality.

"Kurt?" Blaine repeats, resting his hand on my shoulder. "Kurt, are you—"

"Shut up!" I yell. "I'm trying to think!"

He flinches and removes his hand. "W-what's going on?"

"Where did I put it?" I spring out of bed and start to rifle through all the paperwork on my dresser. "Where is it?"

"Where is what?" asks Blaine faintly.

I barely hear him. Where _is _it? I lost it? No! I _shredded _it? I shredded it! I…I…

"I don't have it," I say blankly. "It's gone."

"Kurt, _what_ is gone?" There's an edge to his voice now.

"The…Anna…Anna Wintour's number."

"What? Why did you need her number?"

"I was supposed to give it to you. You were supposed to call her. She wanted you on a another project."

"Well, what, you forgot? Kurt, I don't care. You're kind of freaking me out."

"I didn't forget. I got rid of it. I got rid of it because I didn't want you to call her. I didn't want you to go on another project."

Blaine looks down and rubs his eyes. "Kurt, I'm serious – did you, like, take something? Did you take a sleeping pill or something?"

That single, undesigning comment shoves me over the edge.

"Don't you dare!" I shout. "Don't you know how worthless you make me feel? Why do _you_ deserve everything? So you got beat up once! Do you even know now how much shit_ I_ had to sort through to get here? You just climbed up a fucking staircase of human bodies!"

He stares at me. "Kurt, whatis going on?"

Tears suddenly pour out of my eyes. I crunch my fists to them, yelling in frustration, and drop to the floor. Blaine gets up and comes towards me, but I spring back to my feet.

"Don't you touch me!" I shout. "Don't touch me!"

I flee into the living room and to the door, the door, need to leave, need to get out of here—

The lights flash on and Blaine grabs my arm. "Kurt—"

"Get off me!"

"What the serious hell?" shouts Sebastian, sitting up on the couch. "Do you two have one pinto bean of respect for other people?"

Blaine's eyes don't waver from mine. "Kurt, listen to me: I don't know what's going on, but you need to take a deep breath and—"

"If you don't let go of me, I swear to God I will call the police!"

His hand lingers one second too many and I slap him.

"What are you fucking on about?" he yells, pressing his hand to his face.

I open the door, go through it, and slam it behind me.

* * *

I look at Sebastian, hand still on my face. His eyes are as wide as dinner plates.

"Does he do that a lot?"

"No," I snap, dropping my hand. "No, he's never done that."

"_What_ is going on?" demands Rachel, appearing in the door to her room.

"Kurt just slapped Blaine," says Sebastian.

"What? Oh my God, Blaine, are you alright?"

"I'm – just – could you try and talk to him?"

"Well, where did he go?"

"Out the door. I don't know."

She nods and pulls a coat off the rack before heading out the door. I listen to her call his name for a minute, and then I sit down on the couch. It's still warm from Sebastian's body. He settles next to me, hands folded in his lap, looking legitimately concerned.

"What happened?" he asks.

"I don't think pouring my heart out to you could possibly make this better, Sebastian."

"You're probably right. I, just, I do care about you, Blaine."

We meet eyes and my throat grows tight. I nod.

"I, um, I woke him up from a nightmare, and he immediately started talking about a phone number…"

I recount what happened in an inaccessible, unwavering voice. Finally, Sebastian says, "Well, I'm no expert, but I think the nightmare was important. I think it'll make more sense if we know what the nightmare was about."

"Well, he did shout something before he woke up."

"What?"

"'Blaine, no!' Like I was trying to hurt him, or myself, or something like that."

Sebastian shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I don't know. Do you think he was serious about, you know, you being ungrateful?"

"It's like I wasn't even there. It's like he was talking to no one."

"So…no?"

I stare at my lap, emotions resurfacing. "I don't know. I don't have any idea."

* * *

I sit down on the blue-painted curb and hold my knees to my chest. I stare at wet leaves, dirty slush, at the reflective, lit-up pavement. It looks identical to my dream. Identical, down to the grains of asphalt, strewn over the street like a piece was broken off, chewed up by a giant, spat out.

"Kurt!"

Her voice is distant, and I don't care to let it in. I'm shattered, wrecked, ruined.

"Kurt, c'mon! This isn't funny! Blaine's worried about you!"

Who's he worried about? I don't know. I'm sorry, Love. I don't know you or me anymore.

"Kurt Hummel, I'm serious!"

I picture Rachel running barefoot, in pajamas, down Bleecker Street. I look down at myself. Oh. I'm barefoot, in pajamas. I ran down Bleecker Street.

"Kurt! Please! You're really scaring me!"

I rub my hand under my nose and sniffle. It's cold. It's wet. I'm alone. The only comfort is the heatless yellow light of the street lamp. I'm exposed, sinking in raw, clawing devastation that I can't hope to understand. People don't come back from fights with their greatest fears.

"Kurt." Her voice is close, breathy, relieved. "Thank God."

She sits down next to me. I look at the heart pattern on her hot pink pajamas and then I look away again.

"Kurt, are you all right?"

I don't answer her. What's the point? Everything I am is gone.

"Kurt, c'mon. No one's mad at you. No one's going to yell at you. We just want to know you're okay."

I stare at her. She tucks her hair behind her ear. The wind picks up and I clench my toes into the unyielding asphalt at the sudden chill.

Rachel swallows hard and whispers, "Look, Kurt, I don't know what happened, but I do know that I love you like a sister and I will listen to anything you have to say, if you want to say anything. I would really love to, to listen to you, Kurt."

I stare at her again, but less blankly. "I was supposed to have Blaine call Anna Wintour. She wants to work with him. And I didn't have him call…I didn't tell him anything…because I… I need him the way I needed him in high school. I'm not ready for a relationship that's this serious. We're sleeping in the same bed, and sharing dish duties and…something important feels very, very gone, and I just…I miss meeting Blaine at the Lima Bean and jumping out of my skin when he touched me and having stupid, stupid Finn catch us making out in my room."

"Oh, Finn," burbles Rachel, and I smile.

"I miss all the…awkwardness. Even the bullying. This feels too conformist."

"Kurt, this is not conformist," says Rachel. "You are a gay teenager living without your parents in the world's greatest city. You're an intern at Vogue. _Vogue_, Kurt. And Blaine – he's a gay high school dropout who scored a beautiful modeling opportunity. And me – Jewish, at _NYADA_! And even Sebastian – AIDS, lacrosse? And, and Kurt! We are sitting on the street in Brooklyn in our pajamas in the middle of the night because you slapped your boyfriend in the face! Do you want to know what conformist is? It's having your stupid, stupid stepbrother catch you making out. And besides, if I might remind you, Sebastian walked in on you two making out."

I smile again, but I shake my head, "It's not that we're gay or successful or living in New York. It's that…we'll never have what we had back. In Lima, I never felt at home except when I was with Blaine. It didn't matter what was going on, I was always at home with him, and now…it's starting to fade for me. It was so intense at first. He was…he was the only person that made me feel even all right about myself. And now …now I feel all right without him and I've found other things that feel like home, and I know that I should give him the opportunity to find those things too. It's bittersweet, definitely, but it _is_ what happens. I guess…I guess keeping him in his past forced me to stay a little bit behind too. I'm just…I'm terrified of taking one more step."

"You can't be as terrified as me."

Blaine's voice, sudden and soft in the thick darkness, nearly causes my heart to abandon my body.

"How long have you been there?" I ask.

His mouth twitches nervously and he looks down. "For a while."

"I'll, I'll just go warm my feet up," says Rachel, standing up and tiptoeing down the street.

"Can I sit down?" Blaine asks when she's far enough away.

I nod and he sits next to me. We don't look at each other.

"I should have told you how I felt," I say quietly.

"You're human," he tells me. "We're both just humans."

I sniffle, rubbing my thumbs together and contemplating the washed-up pizza flyer to the left of my foot. It's raining now.

"I'm scared of losing you," I whisper, "so I'm doing things that I think will keep you closer to me, and in the end, those are the things that are going to cause you to leave. I'm acting like I don't need you so you think you need me." I shake my head and watch the accumulating tear stain on my knee. "I dreamed that you died in an accident, and I had to go identify your body, but I didn't particularly care – and then, while I was walking to the accident – you pulled me into an alley and shot me."

He lifts his head up, startled. My throat tightens and I press my lips together, trying to stem the tears.

"I'm sorry," I say, almost inaudibly. "I'm so sorry for never knowing how to take care of myself, and needing more support than any one person can give me, and—"

"Kurt, I have just enough to give you and you have just enough to give me. No more, no less."

I look up. "Do you really believe that?"

"I really believe that. We're made for each other."

I give a small, overflowing smile and a few tears trickle out of my eyes. He holds out his hands and I take them.

"I'm never going to give up on you, Kurt."

"I'll never give up on you, either."

He pulls me to my feet and we walk back up to the apartment. Sebastian lets us in and looks at us the same he would look at a dried out, gray piece of gum on the bottom of his shoe.

"Had I known that I would a.) walk in on you two getting it on, b.) get woken up in the middle of the night by a pointless argument, and c.) discover that you're both schizophrenic, I never would have agreed to stay here. Though if you two are over, I can think of at least one thing that would cheer Blaine up."

Rachel and I sigh in unison. Sebastian wanders into the living room and falls backward over the couch.

"Maybe one of you can start something on fire in an hour," he calls. "I'd love another interruption. Better yet, you can adopt a cat with a penchant for sleeping on my face. How about letting a flatulent old man stay here?"

"Be thankful and go to sleep," says Rachel, tossing him an eye mask.

We all go back to bed. Blaine and I are still a bit uncertain of each other, but I nestle against him, thankful for his warmth. Just as I'm falling asleep, he murmurs, "Why do you think I shot you?"

"I'm trying to sabotage your life."

He yawns. "That's good, Kurt."

* * *

**Just in case anyone was curious…I've actually had that dream (not with Glee characters but with my own personal cast of boyfriends and bullies.) Creepy as hell and SO much fun to write about. **

**Another thing. At the end of Chapter Seven, I asked you guys what Kurt should buy with the $500 dollars he will (at some point) win from the bet with Cooper…and one clever person suggested an engagement ring. I know this has been pretty AU so far…but I was going to have that particular thing stick close to the actual storyline. Thoughts?**


	10. Sirens

**This is somewhat of a filler chapter. The next one (which I'll try to get done soon) will be more important and will, drum roll please, feature: Kurt, Blaine AND Sebastian's parents. Oh, the drama.**

**Enjoy some cough syrup. If you're like me, you recently blew out a vocal cord, trying in vain to sing above your low alto range. Oh well. I must say, I feel kind of glamorous. "Oh, don't mind my scratchy voice. I damaged a vocal cord."**

**In case you were considering skipping this chapter, ****Seb****astian gets **_**freaking high as a kite**_**. So read on.**

* * *

"Finn called," Kurt tells Rachel, spreading too much butter on too little toast. "They're doing _Grease_."

"The New Directions?"

"Well, him and the New Directions," he explains, wiping some jam from his plate with his pinkie. "Artie is having him co-direct."

"Oh," she says, feigning indifference. "That's surprising."

"Rach, c'mon," he says. "You really don't want to know what he said, why he's had a sudden change of heart?"

"No, Kurt, I really don't."

"Well," he says, chewing, "I'm going to tell you anyway. He said he felt like a loser working at my dad's tire shop and even more so after breaking up with you, and he didn't know which way his life was going. So Artie kicked him in the ass and told him that unless he codirected, there would be no musical at all. And something about blowing Olivia Newton John up, but I'm not sure that's relevant."

"So it's his rebound?" she asks.

"Better than an extraterrestrial piece of man candy," I mumble.

Kurt crinkles his nose at me. "Don't you have an on-off switch in your brain that tells you whether something is appropriate or not?"

"Only sometimes," I reply. "And this early in the morning isn't one of those times."

"It isn't _early_ in the morning," he says. "It's seven."

"Fucking early."

"And will you please spend some time to enrich your vocabulary?"

"Exceedingly early?" I supply. "Sorry, but my inner frat-boy surfaces _this early in the morning_."

"Why do _you_ have an inner frat boy?"

"Are you kidding?" Sebastian asks. "Dalton after dark is like...whew. You have to have an iron stomach to get through. At least that's what it's like now."

"That's what it was like when I was there, too," I say.

"So the Rachel Berry House Party Train Wreck Extravaganza wasn't the first time you utterly embarrassed yourself?" asks Kurt.

"No, but no one thought I was unreasonable with Wes there as a distraction. I never knew there were so many uses for a gavel."

"I don't want details," says Kurt. "What about you, Sebastian? Do you have an inner frat boy?"

"I have an outer frat boy."

Kurt presses his lips together and nods. "Yes. Yes, you do."

Sebastian yawns. "Hummel's bitchy already. Go make me some coffee, Devon."

My eyes light up in indignation. "You do _not_ get to call me by my middle name. Absolutely not."

"C'mon, Dev! One cup of coffee!"

"Make it yourself," I tell him. "And if you call me Devon one more time, your new name will be _homeless_."

"You're, like, the worst B and B owners ever."

"It's not a bed and breakfast," sighs Kurt. "_As I was saying_ – Grease. I think we should go and support them."

Rachel balks. "Kurt, I have school, and you have work, and—"

Sebastian clears his throat. "As much as I want to encourage you and Rachel to leave town – I mean, Blaine and I _have _been meaning to spend some time together– there is a complicating factor." He sips some orange juice. "My dad called this morning and he wants me to come back."

Kurt's face softens and his eyebrows peak slightly. "Did he say he was sorry?"

"He said he…made a mistake. He said he would call Harvard back."

"That's not good enough."

"I know. But I want to go back to Dalton."

Kurt's sparkling sapphire eyes – which remind me of moonlit rain pools – turn gray in uncertainty.

"Well, it's your decision," he says, "but I don't think you should go back."

"My dad seemed very…distraught…and doesn't everyone deserve a second chance?"

Kurt looks at me, a memory balanced on his slightly tilted lips, holding me completely captive with curiosity.

"What do you think, Blaine?" asks Sebastian.

"I think you need to let your parents know that what they did can never happen again."

"Make coming back conditional?"

I nod. "I don't see any other way to do it."

"No, me neither. It just feels wrong to tell my parents what _they _can do."

"You're all adults," I tell him. "Just remember that."

"I would write a letter," says Kurt. "I think it tells them you're keeping your distance until they treat you better."

"So if that goes well…I'll go back to Lima with you when you see _Grease_—"

"We're not seeing _Grease_!" says Rachel, but we all ignore her.

"—and if it doesn't, what should I do?"

"Go back anyway," I say. "You need to get back to school."

"Yeah, Mr. Dropout."

"I made a conscious decision to leave. You, Sebastian, are just idling."

"True. So, when is it?"

"In a week," says Kurt. "The flight's going to be expensive."

"No it's not," says Rachel, "because we aren't going."

"We'll just go for the weekend," says Kurt soothingly.

"This conversation is over," she says in response. "Why don't you meet me at NYADA after work? I need help on a dance routine."

Kurt nods. "Okay. We can show Blaine around."

"And me," Sebastian says. "I'll liven your sad trio of diversity right up."

"I guess we have to include you," sighs Kurt. "You might destroy our apartment otherwise."

"Six 'o clock," says Rachel, getting up and scooting in her chair. "Don't be late."

* * *

I snug up my cashmere cranberry-red scarf and cling to my non-fat mocha. It's freezing. Oh, it's freezing. I have never been as cold as I am right now, standing outside of NYADA, waiting for Blaine and Sebastian to meet me.

I question why I agreed to any of this in the first place. I needed to stay at work late tonight and now, because of Rachel's strange dependency on me, I will have to stay up until three a.m. And why did I let Blaine and Sebastian run errands together?

I pull my coat tighter around my body. How can something as light and harmless as air be this cold? My extremities are dying off one finger and one toe at a time, and I think the tip of my nose has literally turned to ice. I should go inside, but they said they would be here. They said they would.

I wait ten minutes, and just as I'm turning to go inside, they appear a block down. They're walking fast, talking and nudging each other. Sebastian tries to steal the paper bag that Blaine has in his hand, and Blaine shoves him, laughing. Sebastian picks up some snow in his hand and throws it at Blaine, and Blaine copies him. How darling.

When they reach me, Blaine pales. "Um, hi. We thought you'd be inside." He quickly hands me the bag. "Bagel?"

"Fine," I mumble, opening it. I frown. "It's the raisin kind. You know I like the blueberry ones."

"They only had one blueberry one, so he gave it to me," explains Sebastian.

I glower at them. "You know that I've been waiting here almost twenty minutes?"

"You could have waited inside," Blaine says lightly. "Let's go. We're cold, too."

"You don't look cold," I tell him, keeping my eyes on my feet as we go through the rotating door. We separate from Sebastian by a couple feet. He takes my hand and puts his mouth close to my ear.

"What's wrong now?"

"You gave Sebastian my bagel."

"He's a guest."

"Would you drop the gentleman front for once?"

He sighs. "Kurt, it's a bagel. Do not read into a bagel."

"You looked like you were enjoying each other's company walking down the street a minute ago."

"Sebastian's kind of drunk right now."

I stop in place. "Oh no. No, Blaine. If you were drinking-"

"_He_ took some cold medicine. He said he felt under the weather."

"Excellent. And you let him because...?"

"Because he's not my son? Let it go. He had a sore throat."

I search his eyes for a trace of dishonesty, but I don't find one. I nod reluctantly.

"C'mon, Kurt. Look around. This is NYADA. This is your dream!"

I have to smile. I look up at the glass paneling, at the balconies and staircases and students, at the posters for something called Winter Showcase, at the lights strung over the ceiling. It's the whole world in one room.

"Okay," I say softly. "I forgive you for appearing to have a crush on that smarmy-"

Suddenly, Sebastian drapes his arms over both of us and crashes our heads together.

"Wooh! I LOVE Robitussin! That stuff is bitchin', girlfriends!"

"You're out of freaking your mind," I mutter to Blaine. "You just turned Freud into Chris Rock."

"Well...at least he's happy?"

"NYADA!" Sebastian shouts, and a few heads turn. "MY PEOPLE!"

"Okay!" I say quickly, disentangling myself. "You!" Sebastian gulps. "You are going to keep your mouth shut at all times. Do you understand?"

He nods frantically.

"Good," I say. "Now let's go find Rachel."

* * *

"I can't believe you have a dance audition for _The Glass Menagerie_," I grunt, leaning forward.

Rachel and I are sitting spread-legged on the floor, our feet touching, hands clenched, pulling each other back and forth like a human teeter-totter. Not only is this extremely embarrassing – Sebastian is giggling like a pig-tailed fourth grader – it's also quite painful.

"Well," says Rachel, leaning back and pulling several of my vertebrae with her, "Ivan is a very physical director. All of his work is very movement-driven."

"Whhooa, this is really painful, Rach."

"Come on."

I lean back again, and when she goes to pull me forward again, I let her hands go. "Have…to…release."

She gently glides onto her back, breathing smoothly. I, meanwhile, continue to groan and whimper.

"That was excruciating. I think I slipped a disk."

Sebastian is practically a puddle of laughter at this point, and Blaine's having trouble containing himself too.

"Oh, like either of you are half as flexible as me," I snap, turning their smiles into flat, expressionless lines. My phone vibrates and Rachel props herself up on her elbows as I read a text from Tina, who has – to my concern – included the word _warbler_ in her username.

"Grease update from Tina," I mumble. "Apparently the girl playing Sandy has gained so much weight, she can't fit into her clothes."

"Oh, no. That's unfortunate," Rachel says sadly. "But it doesn't really have anything to do with us, right Kurt?"

I pout.

"No," she says, more firmly. "I told you that we are not going to see it."

"Not gonna see what?" bites a woman's voice. I turn around and see Cassandra July enter the room, a bag slung over her shoulder, her midriff showing. She glances over me and then she looks at Blaine and Sebastian.

"Who ordered three gay youths?" she snips. "Did they come with tapenade? Because I'm craving tapenade." She turns to Rachel. "What are you doing in my studio? Practicing for your big audition?"

She gulps and we both get to our feet.

"Yeah," she says. "This is actually my roommate, Kurt, and he's helping me with it."

"It's an honor to meet you, Ms. July," I squeak, "and ooh, y-you've got some abs! "

She drums on them. "That's sweet. Who are your friends?"

I tiptoe over to Blaine and take his hand, feeling like I'm under a spotlight. "T-this is my boyfriend, Blaine Anderson, and this," I gesture at Sebastian, who is doing the Charleston and inspecting himself in the mirror, "is our friend, Sebastian Smythe."

He turns and offers a meerkat-y smile. "Nice to meet you, Ms. July."

She scowls. "From now on," she points at me, "you will be Doll Face. You," she points at Blaine, "will be Short and Sweet, and you," she points at Sebastian, "will be Blacklist, because I would sell my right breast before letting you into NYADA." She looks at Rachel. "Can you get the bar?"

Rachel rolls the bar over to her and she begins to stretch on it.

"So," she prompts. "You were saying? Not gonna see…?"

"Her recently broken-up-with ex-boyfriend is directing a school production of Grease, and we've got a bunch of friends in it, so we were debating whether or not we should go," I explain as Blaine wraps his arm around me.

"When is it?" she asks.

"This weekend," I respond.

Oh," she says, like it's obvious. "You need to go. I mean, if you're not over your ex, it's a perfect opportunity for closure."

"I have closure," Rachel says, and Blaine nudges me. I bite back a smile.

"Okay," says Cassandra breathily. "Then go have _fun_, Schwim. Or go because it's Grease. Go because it's your friends, it's your high school.

"Rachel," I say, a hint of an apology in my voice, "I'm going. Blaine's going with me. I know it'll be hard to see Finn, and I know that Blaine and I have been like a constant parade of rainbow flags, but I need to see them again. I _miss _them. And Tina misses Blaine."

He glances at me, eyebrows raised.

I shrug. "Her new username is_ punk-warbler-marry-me-anderson_."

"That's…interesting."

"So, please Rach? Please come with us?"

"Look, even if I wanted to go, which I don't, we don't have the money." She looks at Ms. July. "Kurt's an intern and I spent all of my money on my last trip home."

"Well I could give you my JetBlue frequent flyer miles."

I nod frantically and Rachel purses her lips. Blaine mutters, "Déjà vu."

"Don't feel bad. I can't use them," Cassandra goes on, straightening up from the bar. "I was banned. My Bloody Mary-fueled panic attack at 30,000 feet resulted in the hospitalization of three flight attendants."

I pop my eyebrows at her.

"Don't ask," she says dismissively, looking again at Rachel. "And don't go if you don't want to. But I just think you'll regret missing it."

Rachel glances around uncertainly. Blaine and I beam identical mommy-please smiles at her. Sebastian finally groans and says, "If you don't say yes, I'm going to put chili in your bed, and when I say chili, I mean raccoon crap."

"I'll think about it," she says, wrinkling her nose at him. "And if you ever do that, your manhood will meet the heel of my Stilettos."

"Nice, Schwimmer," says Cassandra appreciatively. "Now scurry."

We pick up our bags and depart the studio. Rachel gives us a brief tour, gets waylaid by Brody, and offloads us at the NYADA coffee shop.

"Feels like home," says Sebastian. "Feels like Dalton."

"Cue bawdy flirting," mumbles Blaine.

"_Sex on a stick_!" Sebastian sings, to the tune of "band on the run!"

"_Stick in your eye_!" I banter back.

"Fine. Let's talk about dish detergent, or lint, or Lithuanian history."

"You know, there _are _things that are interesting other than Blaine."

Sebastian looks over Blaine and shakes his head. "I don't think so."

Blaine huffs. "How about we discuss fitting Rachel into a suitcase so she'll come back to Lima with us?"

"She'll come," I say, leaning forward like I'm telling a secret. "All we have to do is get her to think she's weak if she doesn't go. It will be very simple."

"Berry, Berry simple," says Sebastian, giggling again.

I direct a glare at Blaine and he looks away.

"No more cough syrup," I say tersely. "Not ever. Look at him. He's a crumbling mess."

We both watch Sebastian as he bangs his fist on the table, calling, "Berry, Berry!"

"This is humiliating," I sigh. "I pictured my first time in NYADA as this...this mystical arrival. I wanted it to feel like coming home."

Blaine smiles. "I think it does feel like that. Your eyes are like stars right now."

I rub my thumb over his cheek. "That's because I'm with you."

"I love you so much."

I lift an eyebrow. "Déjà vu."

We kiss quickly, serenaded by Sebastian's mumbling. Finally, he falls asleep with his head on the table, drooling.

"Take a picture," I instruct Blaine. "This has classic blackmail potential."

He pulls out his phone and we share a quick, evil smirk as he takes the picture. Sebastian experiences the startle reflex and I press my face against Blaine's shoulder, positively quaking, tears in my eyes. He claps a hand over his mouth at the last second and falls into irreversible laughter with me. Sebastian just lies there like a gasping fish.

When we finally recover, we order a pot of tea to split and open up a crossword. A giggle still escapes here or there when we look at Sebastian, but we manage to keep our composure. After a little while, Blaine starts to bite his lip.

"I know you want to say something," I tell him, rolling a pen in between my fingers.

"How did you-"

"I've seen you naked, Blaine. I always know. Now fess up."

He smiles. "I wanted to ask...about what happened at Home Depot. You never told me and considering last night..."

I hesitate, caught in the headlights. Then I nod cautiously.

"I'd never really been beat up before," I tell him. "I know that sounds hard to believe, but mostly I was just tossed into dumpsters and pushed into lockers and slushied. Even Karosfky...I don't think he would have put me in the hospital, do you?"

Blaine doesn't answer. I glance up and see that his eyes are glassy and expressionless.

"You know," I say softly. "You've never really told me what happened after the Sadie Hawkins dance, either."

"It wasn't that bad," he says automatically. Then he shakes his head. "Yes, it was." He molds his hands around his coffee cup. "This shouldn't be hard to talk about, but sometimes…sometimes it's so much easier to sing to a thousand people than to admit I'm not perfect to you."

My eyes brighten and I swallow hard. "That's how I've felt ever since you got here."

We hold each other's gaze for a moment. Finally I take his hand and say, "I was looking for paint samples to paint the apartment, and when I was standing in line, three teenagers came up to me and asked to use my phone. I let them and they saw a picture of you and realized…and they started teasing me and I cracked. I just…I just cracked…like you in the hallway with Karofsky. I punched one of them, and then they attacked me and I don't remember very much after that. I had never needed you so much in my life after that…and when you magically appeared six days later…I didn't realize that I really needed to think about what living with you would mean, like, actually _think_ about it. And now it's too late."

He hesitates. "Do you not want—"

"Oh, no, Blaine, no. I just wish I had been part of the decision. If I don't warm up to something slowly, like tempering custard, I end up curdling…and then someone has to put me through a fine-mesh strainer to make me smooth again." Blaine looks very confused. "That didn't clarify anything, did it?"

"No," he admits.

"I'm just trying to say that I need fair warning before major things happen. I think part of it's from my mom. It was, um…" I take a sharp breath. "She died of brain cancer and we never had time to wrap our minds around it. We got the news and she died a month later. I don't like surprises, even good ones. They just make me even more highly strung than I usually am." I sniffle and smile slightly. "You know, we love each other, so we'll bring out the best and the worst in each other. It's just a given."

"I have to admit, I did feel like I was in _Silver Lining's Playbook_."

I laugh loudly. "Oh my God. Oh God. Love you so much."

He takes both of my hands and smiles. Rachel appears after a moment, Brody following her like a hunting dog with a duck in its mouth.

"What happened?" he asks, looking at Sebastian.

"He took too much cough medicine," Blaine explains, "and his brain cells had to put him to sleep so they could focus on lots of little brain cell funerals."

Brody squints. "Do you need help carrying him?"

"Yes, thank God a heterosexual muscle-head showed up," I sigh. "What would we have done otherwise?"

"Let's just go," says Rachel, unsympathetically hoisting Sebastian to his feet.

He eventually makes it out the door and down the icy street, refusing all help and falling twice. Remind me - why do I surround myself with people like Sebastian, Brody and Rachel?

There's Rach in four-inch heels, shouldering a briefcase too large for her delicate frame, holding onto Brody half for support, half because he's the target of copious and obvious flirtation. And he, meanwhile, is preventing Sebastian from tipping backwards by tapping him squarely in the back every few seconds. And Sebastian, on top of it all, is singing _God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman_ at the top of his cold-afflicted lungs.

"It's moments like these that I absolutely adore your hair gel and bowties," I tell Blaine as we shuffle down 8th Avenue. "I mean, Rachel's made up and Brody is a wax figurine and Sebastian always looks put together, but they don't carry it like you. They look like wannabes. You, my darling, are just naturally urbane."

"Aw, Kurt, that's sweet of you," he says, lacing his fingers with mine.

"It's the truth," I say, putting my head back and breathing in the scent of snow deeply. "You are like a perfectly circular chocolate shortbread cookie. You're so perfect, that I wouldn't even dream of dipping you in coffee."

"You're so off-the-wall sometimes," he says, laughing. Then he glances up at the wreathed streetlamps. "Oh look, mistletoe."

He's drawn me into a warm kiss before I can say anything. I pull away, laughing and beaming …in love in every way imaginable.

"That's not mistletoe, Silly," I whisper.

"I failed botany in high school?" he suggests.

"You never have to have an excuse to kiss me."

"Good," he says, kissing me again. "Because I like kissing you."

We kiss a third time, a longer, more passionate kiss, and then I lean against him and linger in his arms. Mm, Blaine. He smells like oak and citrus and coffee. It's intoxicating.

"I need you too much," I murmur.

"I know the feeling," he replies.

We smile at each other and meet up with the others at the subway. They are no less disheveled than before. Rachel and Brody are comparing footwork for a dance. Sebastian is arguing with a panhandler. The panhandler is winning.

When we get home, Blaine and I lock ourselves away in our room and snuggle on the window seat. We had made grand plans – bubble baths, whip cream– but after delays on the train, that's all we have energy for. Snuggling on the window seat, listening to Roxy Music, watching the snow. Some of the flakes are as large as magnolia blossoms.

I run my hand through Blaine's hair and sink into the feeling of his breath against my neck; he's almost asleep, and maybe it's this, or maybe it's the warmth, but something tells me to say it.

"I want to marry you."

He glances up, eyes glowing and iridescent. "I want to marry you, too."

"I know we've said it before," I whisper. "But I really…I really mean it."

"Are you proposing to me, Kurt?" he asks, mouth spreading into a bright, infectious grin.

I laugh. "No. It's just that 'I love you' doesn't sound like enough right now."

He sits up and pulls me closer. "'I love you' will always be enough…but I do want to marry you. I want to have you yell at me for getting frosting on your face, and sing _Come What May_ with you, and promise to love you the rest of my life. Because I will, Kurt. I'll never stop loving you."

I smile and nestle closer to him. "I'll never stop loving you either."

The snow is still falling silently outside, muffling the noise of the city; I listen to the occasional pop of saxophone from the stereo and then to Blaine's steady breathing. I wiggle forward, grab a blanket and pull it over us.

"Good night," I whisper.

He's asleep, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch, like his body knows to smile whenever I say this. I love you, I think to myself as I watch his moonlit profile. I love you so much. Nothing ever goes wrong when I'm with you.

A streetlight flickers out below us.


	11. Glease

**I'm so sorry for the huge delay! **

**First of all – and this is IMPORTANT – so listen up: Someone recently asked whether this story is open-ended and I wanted to clear that up. Originally, I wasn't going to have it be open-ended, but then I started thinking. To answer the question, yes and no. Because I am roughly basing this off of Season 4, I'm planning on including key parts from Thanksgiving, Swan Song, Glee Actually, I Do, Girls (and Boys) On Film, Wonder-ful and All or Nothing. That said, this is ****your**** story. If you want me to go in a completely different direction, tell me! I'm open to any and all ideas, so THROW THEM AT ME LIKE ROTTEN FRUIT! **

**Secondly, please don't stop reading because of this chapter. It gets a little sad and it looks like things may fall apart…but Kurt and Blaine are endgame in my mind…so I promise that nothing "final" is ever going to happen between them. At least not in my writing. I can't speak for Ryan Murphy.**

**(They're gonna get hitched though, don't ya think?)**

**And finally – small TRIGGER WARNING for a reference to suicide. And there's some hard stuff about Kurt's mom, so if that's not your thing, I'm sorry. : (**

**Read, review, prompt! I'm not going to ask again!**

**Kidding. I'll definitely ask again.**

**ONWARD!**

* * *

"Moisturizer?" asks Rachel.

"Check," I reply.

"Clean socks?"

"Check."

We're standing in the kitchen, sipping on coffee, waiting for Blaine and Sebastian to lock up the apartment.

"Unsalted cashews for the plane?" she continues.

"Mm hmm.

"And did you remember to get the water bottles out of the freezer?"

In the time it takes us to get to street level with all of our luggage, an entire new species could have evolved.

We huddle in the doorway until we spot a taxi. I step out and try to wave it down. The driver looks directly at me and keeps going. This happens two more times.

"Here, I'll try," says Blaine, sneaking out of the huddle.

"Like you'll have better—"

A taxi pulls up to the curb before I can even get the words out. God. Blaine is like a magnetic field for all good things.

We gather up our luggage and file into the taxi. We were going to take the AirTran, but Sebastian refused and we couldn't afford to lose him en route, so we agreed to split the cost for a taxi. In my opinion, taxis are no less dirty, crowded or smelly than public transportation – and at least on a train, we could have sat in separate compartments.

"Move OVER," demands Rachel. "Kurt, for someone who weighs a hundred pounds, you are taking up SO MUCH room. Sit on Blaine!"

"You sit on Blaine!"

The taxi pulls out and her head hits the rear window.

"MOVE!" she cries.

I cross my arms stubbornly. She hisses, climbs over me and Sebastian, and plants herself on top of Blaine.

"Is this really what you wanted?" she asks.

"Absolutely," I say, organizing a stack of maps and putting them in my shoulder bag. "La Guardia, please."

"Pay up front," says the driver in a thick accent. They all have thick accents. "$60."

"We'll pay when we get there," I say, still organizing. "Please hurry."

"You pay up front."

"Just give it to him," says Blaine.

"I'll have to dig my wallet out."

"Well, dig it out!"

"How about you pay, Blaine? Didn't you just get $2000 for modeling?"

He shoots me a look, but pulls out the money and hands it to the driver.

"Thank you," says the driver.

"You're welcome," Blaine replies in a diplomatic tone.

It takes about twenty-five minutes to reach the airport. When we get there, we put all of our luggage on a caddy, go through the line, and head off to security. When we reach our gate, I lean against Blaine, smiling slightly, thinking about the weekend. We'll get to see _Grease_, and go to the Lima Bean – maybe we could even go walk around Dalton.

"You've got that look in your eyes," says Blaine.

I balance my chin on his shoulder and offer my flirtiest smile. "What look?"

"You're impossible," he says, kissing me quickly. "Want a coffee? You look like you could use one."

"No, I'm going to try to sleep on the plane." I force myself to sit up. "I should call Carole, though. She doesn't know Sebastian is with us."

I type in her number and she answers on the third ring, as always.

"Kurt!" she says brightly. "Where are you at?"

"We're at La Guardia," I tell her. "I just wanted to give you a heads-up – we'll need to make an extra stop on the way home. We're bringing a friend with us, and he needs to be dropped off in Westerville."

"Oh, okay. Who is it?"

"Someone from Dalton. He came out to visit us in New York."

"That's no problem," she says. "You know, I'm _so_ excited for you to see _Grease_! The kids have worked really hard on it and Finn is _very _anxious to get your opinion. In fact…and I meant to tell you this earlier, I really did…but it'll be Finn picking you up. I hope that's okay."

The blood drains out of my face and I stare at Rachel, shimmying around in her raspberry-pink coat, smiling at a toddler in a souvenir shop. I hesitate, and then I say, "Of course. It'll be fine. We'll see you in a few hours." I get off the phone and lean against Blaine. "Oh, God."

"What's wrong?"

"Finn's picking us up."

His eyes also travel to Rachel, who has knelt down to show the toddler the collection of Barbra pictures she keeps in her wallet. She gives the little girl one of the pictures to keep, and then she walks our way and collapses next to me.

"I want a daughter! Don't you want a daughter, Kurt?"

"Rachel, Finn is picking us up."

"No," she says, voice shaking. "You must have heard that wro—"

"I didn't. He's picking us up."

She leans back and stares straight ahead. Then she whispers, "Well, it's like I said: I have closure. It'll be fine."

* * *

We land in Ohio around noon. I find Finn standing near a luggage carousel, unaware I'm watching him. He's smiling slightly, his eyes sparkling in the way only his eyes can sparkle. He helps an old woman pull her suitcase off the conveyor belt, and then salutes her. Finn. He may not be a brilliant strategist or the best performer, but he lights up a room.

"Finn!" I call.

"Kurt!" he shouts.

I jog up to him and he catches me in a strangling hug.

"I'm glad to see you, little bro," he says, messing up my hair. "How are you?"

"Sunshiny," I tell him, bending in a little dance and tilting my head towards Blaine, who is fussing with the wheels on a luggage cart.

"Oh, yeah," says Finn, lowering his voice. "How's it going?"

"It's sensational," I tell him breathily. "I think I could cry sequins."

"I don't think that would surprise anyone," Finn says, grinning. "I mean, we're all sort of surprised that you don't."

He looks over my shoulder and his face changes suddenly.

"Kurt?"

"Yes, Finn?"

"Is that Sebastian Smythe?"

I turn around and see Sebastian grab the luggage cart and threaten to run Blaine's fingers over with it.

"He's…sort of a friend, now."

"After what he did to me? And didn't he like…sleep with Blaine?

"No!"

Finn holds his hands up. "Okay! Scary Kurt!"

I sigh. "I don't like him any more than you do, but we're stuck with him until Westerville."

"Oh, Kurt, there you are! I was—" Rachel stops dead and looks at Finn. She deftly folds her gloves and looks down. "Hi Finn."

"Hi…Rach."

"Shouldn't you be working on _Grease_?"

"We're, we're pretty settled into it at this point," he tells her. "Artie has it under control."

"So, what's your favorite song?"

He smiles. "I'm pretty proud of how _You're The One That I Want _turned out, actually."

"Well, good." She smiles too. "I'm excited. Did that girl lose any weight?"

"It's kind of weird – I mean, she's really skinny. I don't know why she's not fitting in her clothes." He gestures over his shoulder. "I'll go bring the car around. It's kind of chilly. I'd always do that, you know, to drop you off for class."

Rachel smiles, eyes glistening; then she sets her jaw and nods. "That would be great."

Finn leaves, and I squeeze Rachel's shoulder.

"You can do this, Rach."

"I'm not so sure anymore. He's so…pure."

"You'll be fine. You're not going to let him see you sweat, Rach. I'll be there with you."

She nods, taking a nervous drink of water. "You're right, you're right."

Blaine and Sebastian step up behind us.

"So, how's Dick Small?" asks Sebastian.

* * *

"Is this the right exit?" Finn wonders, looking back at Sebastian.

"No, it's the next one," he explains, picking a piece of licorice out of his teeth. "Don't you have GPS?"

"Uh, dude?" says Finn, gesturing at the dashboard of his '96 Chevy. "Not exactly. This doesn't even have airbags."

"That's good," mumbles Kurt from the front; he's snuggled up in Rachel's pink Scooby Doo blanket, head against the window

"It's not a problem, man," says Finn. "I'm an excellent driver."

"Strangely, that doesn't make me feel any better," Kurt replies. He sits up, yawns and starts rummaging in the glove box.

Rachel purses her lips. "I just want to mention that I do not appreciate being stuck in the backseat with Blaine and Sebastian. I should have been given the front seat. I'm the only woman here!"

"You're not allowed to use that excuse anymore, Rach," says Kurt.

"It's not about rights, Kurt! It's about being gentlemanly! Right, Blaine?"

I shrug and she huffs. Sebastian snakes his feet through the center counsel and opens a second package of licorice.

"I'm so glad I don't have to ride with you people for two hours," he says, pouring some candies in his mouth. "I don't know how you put up with each other. And I bet _Grease_ is going to be awful."

"It's going to be wonderful!" says Rachel. "You're going to hurt Finn's feelings!"

"Are you two dating?" Sebastian says in his most stinging voice. "Because last I heard, you let a new hunka hunka burning love go all up in your undercarriage."

Finn and Rachel turn bright red.

"Have you ever thought about dating a woman, Sebastian?" asks Kurt. "Because I know just the one."

"Sebtaaaana," I sing.

"That Mexican bitch?" asks Sebastian, wrinkling his nose. "Not even in Hell."

"You'll regret saying that when you both end up there," Kurt says delicately. Then he squeals. "I found an energy shot!"

"I don't think that's a good—"

But he's popped the lid and sucked it dry before I can get the words out.

"Kurt!" I complain. "You know what those do to you!"

"I'm sorry, but I'm feeling about as lively as an episode of _Murder She Wrote_."

I lean back, exasperated. Kurt mixes with energy drinks about as well as I mix with alcohol.

"Okay, _this_ exit?" asks Finn.

Sebastian looks out the window and his grin fades slightly. He swallows and nods. "Yeah, this one."

I glance over at him – which is risky, since we're so close in Finn's backseat that I could count his eyelashes – and whisper, "You'll be fine. You're stronger than they are."

"That doesn't mean it's not hard," he says, just as quietly.

"I know. But you _are_ stronger than they are. You came back. You found them. They just abandoned you."

He nods, eyes wet, and then he suddenly says, "God, I'm sorry, Rachel. I shouldn't have brought that up. And Finn – I'm sorry for the pictures. And I still can't apologize enough to you, Kurt. And I know apologies probably don't sound like much coming from me, but before I throw myself to the wolves…I want you guys to know that you've treated me better than _anyone_ I've ever met…I, I love you guys."

The car is silent for a minute. Kurt's glassy aquamarine eyes are wide, slightly suspicious. Then Finn says, "Well, that's enough for me, man. You are now an honorary inductee of the New Directions. I mean, I know none of us are in it anymore, but it was our home…and you sound like you need one of those."

Sebastian stares at Finn, expressionless, and then he smiles – it's a small, almost imperceivable smile, but it's the most genuine one I've ever seen cross his lips.

"Thank you," he says. "That means everything."

Finn nods and smiles back. "Awesome, man. Whatever we can do."

We pull down an oak-lined street next to the Westerville Reservoir. It's very similar to the one my house is on, but in a different category of _rich_. My parents have never had money problems, but Sebastian's parents are the kind of people who fund hospitals.

"It's that one up there," he says, pointing at a gate. "Unless they changed the combination, I should be able to get in."

Finn pulls up to the gate and Sebastian hops out, plugs in a code, and the gate slides open. He makes to get back in the car, but he stops.

"I think I'll walk. I don't want them to see the car."

We all nod. I hand him his suitcase and he smiles.

"Don't be a stranger?" he says hopefully.

"Wouldn't dream of it," I tell him.

He shuts the car door and starts down the drive. We're just pulling away when Kurt shouts, "Wait!" and jumps out of the car. He runs after Sebastian, hugs him, and then grips his arms. He says something – I can't hear him over the engine and the breeze – and Sebastian nods solemnly. They separate, Kurt walks back to the car, and slides in next to me.

"Get in the front seat, Rachel," he says authoritatively. "And Finn – Starbucks, pronto."

We all look at him blankly for a second. Then Rachel climbs into the front and we pull out onto the road.

* * *

We drop Rachel off at her house, and pull into the Hummel-Hudson residence just as the sun is going down. Carole and Dad are standing in the driveway holding a large banner – one that looks suspiciously like a refurbished _Hummel Automotive _banner – that says 'Welcome Home, Kurt and Blaine!'

"Oh, wow, that's really sweet," Blaine says, smiling wide.

"They really care about us," I say softly. "Us, together, as a whole." I shake my head and start to laugh and cry at once. "It's not even our choice at this point, B. They're not going to _let_ us break up."

We get out of the car and link hands before walking up to my parents. Carole practically tackles Blaine and Dad hugs me warmly.

"Welcome back, kid," he says. "How's New York?"

"It's amazing," Blaine interrupts, putting his arm around me. "It was perfect."

Carole smiles and the skin around her eyes buckles slightly as she tries not to cry. Dad kisses the top of her head.

"No crying, Care," he says. "Kurt does enough of that to go around."

I laugh, wiping my eyes, and Carole collects herself. She and Dad fold up the banner and we all file inside. We eat dinner (stuffed zucchini followed by this wonderful pumpkin ice cream that Carole's mother made) and then we collapse in the living room and watch part of a football game. I'm too tired to read a magazine, and Blaine's so tired that he's resting with his head in my lap, fingers vacantly brushing against my knee.

"YES!" roars Dad, causing both of us to jump. "You see that, Blaine? Sixty-yard field goal!"

"Mm hmm," he says.

"Oh, sure," snorts Dad. Then he pounds on the armrest of his La-Z Boy. "You call that a foul!?"

I smile and brush my fingers through Blaine's hair. He smiles, too, so I run my fingers over his chin, trace his mouth, follow a line on his arm until I'm holding his hand. I catch myself beaming like an idiot, wanting to give him everything, not wanting anything in return.

He opens his coppery green eyes a sliver and turns so he can look at me. Mm, Blaine. I think I fall in love with him a little bit more every day, even though I insist I could never love him more than I already do.

"Want to go to bed?" he asks softly.

I nod and we stand up, leaning and clinging and yawning. We sling our luggage over our shoulders and finally make it up the stairs to the entrance of my room. The door sticks slightly to the frame as I push it open, and the floor creaks as we step inside. It's still white and simple, still organized. The bed's in the same place, down to the position of the pillows. I actually remember fussing with the angle of the pillows before I left for New York, and there they are, not even changed by a breath.

I drop my luggage into a leather chair and shut the door, which makes the same, jolting click as it used it.

"You know, it's strange," I say, trying to fill the stillness. "It hasn't been that long…but I feel like I'm looking at a baby picture. This feels so far away." I reach for a light and click the lock on the door shut. "Maybe it's because I never really put myself into this room, not like I did with my old one. Maybe it's why I always liked your room the best. You were in every part of that room...and I loved being in there and just…sensing you." I gesture at the bed. "Could you turn it down and tug the sheets out at the end?"

He pulls me close instead.

"I love you."

Three simple words. I love you. And Blaine has so many different _I love you's. _There's the spontaneous kind, like the very first time he said it; the deliberate kind, like when he brings me flowers; the reflexive kind, like when he says goodbye on the phone; the intense, endorphin-rush kind, which usually comes in a gasp; and then there's the kind that says more…the kind that says_ I truly love you, I deeply love you, I love you more than I can even express_.

That's what this one is.

"Being back here," he says quietly, "makes me want to relive all our firsts…but you can go back, and not _get_ it back. It's like the quote in The Great Gatsby. You can't repeat the past? Well…you can…but it's not the same. It's still a new experience. And all that…just…"

"Blaine?"

He smiles and blushes. I blush every other minute, but with Blaine, it's sort of like a solar eclipse. It's that rare. That significant.

"All that made me want to ask you…if you were serious about getting married. I mean, really serious. Not like wedding colors and everything we've talked about before. I mean…the vows and the…life together."

My breath catches in my throat. "I was serious."

"Good."

"Good?" I ask nervously. "I'm kind of expecting you to get down on one knee right now, Blaine."

"Well," he says, raising his eyebrows, "that wouldn't make much sense without a ring, would it?"

And then he lets me go, slides into bed, and turns the lights off.

* * *

In the morning, I find Carole sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and looking exhausted.

"I need one of those," I mutter, reaching for the coffee pot and pouring myself a tall mug. "I didn't sleep at all."

She looks up. "Why is that?"

I sit down and slide the canister of creamer – the only thing my parents keep on hand – in front of me and start spooning it into my coffee. I watch it melt, disappearing into the black, and then I let the spoon go. It hugs the side of the cup, swaying slightly, coffee beading up on the handle.

I rub the back of my head. "I think Blaine is going to ask me to marry him."

Carole's eyebrows jump and her eyes lock on mine. "Are you serious?"

"I can't know for sure, but he's been hinting. And it's not like I can ask him if he is. It's just not the kind of thing you ask."

"That's…big," she says softly. "What are you going to say?"

"You don't disapprove?" I ask. "I mean, with Rachel and Finn…"

Carole laughs. "I certainly didn't think it was wise – and, well, look what happened – but compared to what Burt thought? He, Leroy and Hiram were all standing outside the reception room, planning to sabotage it! They were going to stand up when the Justice asked if anyone objected!"

"_Dad_," I whisper, paling. "I forgot about Dad!"

"Burt will _never _be ready for you to get married, Kurt. You know, Blaine came over for dinner to ask our permission for him to move to New York, and your father was lovely and genuine about it …had all the right reactions…but when Blaine left, he just collapsed on the couch, shaking his head. I don't think he knew the extent of your relationship at all. And I was like, 'Burt, you missed that boat by a year!'"

I flush and sip my coffee. "You didn't miss that boat?"

"Give me some credit, Kurt! I'm one perceptive chick! The late hours? The Dalton T-shirts showing up in our laundry all the time? The renewed embarrassment with romantic movies?"

I hang my head, laughing. "God, and I thought we were really being subtle. But it sounds like you didn't tell Dad?"

"Nope." She reaches out and latches her pinkie with mine. "You can trust me, Kurt. I raised _Finn_. Remember sophomore year?" She shakes her head slightly and then her eyes refocus on mine. "So, what are you going to say if he asks?"

I smile and open my mouth, but then I hesitate.

"I know what I want to say," I say finally. "But I'm kind of surprised at his timing."

"Why is that?"

"Well, I've been telling him that it's all too much for me, that our relationship _and_ New York _and_ Vogue is more than I can handle – and now this?" I tap agitatedly on the side of my coffee cup. "He gets wrapped up in ideas and takes off with them…he doesn't always think about them enough. I mean, for a person that will practice the same verse of a song for hours, he can be pretty…impulsive and impromptu. Moving to New York? I think he thought about it for about fifteen minutes before booking tickets."

"That's the impression I got, too," she says. "But that's not always bad, is it?"

"Well, it's honest, but…for something as big as getting married?" I sigh. "That's why I didn't sleep. I couldn't help wondering if he had actually thought it through or if it's part of this whole gay marriage craze or if it's because we got into this _thing_ and he's worried about losing me…we always make up because we can't stand to be on bad terms with each other…but I've just got this feeling…"

"This feeling?"

"I feel like I'm waiting for something to go really, really wrong. And what if he asks me before that happens? Then we're even _more_ committed and if my feeling's right and something _does_ go wrong, what do I do then?"

Carole smiles sadly. "I don't know what to say, Kurt. Maybe you could be even clearer to him that you've got enough on your plate?"

I sigh and finish my coffee. "It's my fault. One minute I act like I want more recognition for how fragile I am, and then as soon as he gives it to me, I yell at him for treating me like I'm weak. I just wish I had more time, but it's so like him to propose at a play, at McKinley. God, what am I going to do?"

I don't resolve anything by the time Blaine comes down to breakfast. He's completely oblivious to my dilemma, and while I'm thankful for this, it's also grating on me. Doesn't he know me at all? Does he even notice me? I don't know. I just expect him to magically understand everything, to know that I'm _praying_ he doesn't propose, to see that I'm once again on the edge of a breakdown.

"So, Lima Bean, what do you say?" he asks.

I meditatively chew a bite of toast. The Lima Bean. It's definitely on the list of potential proposal sites. God, look at me. Look at what I'm doing. _Courage, Kurt!_ God, look at _that_! Look how twisted I just made that!

"I don't really feel well," I say quietly. My stomach contracts. "Actually, I _really_ don't feel well."

I silently get up and push in my chair, ignoring four pairs of eyes on my back. I quickly walk to the bathroom, brace the door and fall in front of the toilet just in time. I throw up until I have nothing in my stomach, and then I rest my head on the side of the cool bathtub and cry. I don't know if it's because I have a habit of repressing things, but I break down _suddenly_. It's never a process. I never have the opportunity to catch myself. I'm falling, halfway to the ground, before I ever realize something is wrong. And something is so, so wrong.

When we were dating – not living together – he was my daily injection of everything that's good in the world – love, fashion, verbiage. Now, I just feel like I'm drowning. I try to be honest with myself. Was I ready for a serious relationship? No. And it's not that the relationship we had in high school _wasn't_ serious. But it felt protected, somehow, like we were living in a bubble. Back then, I equated loving him with being okay. I don't equate those things anymore, and I'm starting to wonder if that was actually _part_ of the reason I was so attached to him. It's circular, but intuitively, I know it's true. In high school, I based every decision on him, because if _he_ was part of my life, I though _every _part of my life would turn out okay.

I know I shouldn't blame myself for what I did in high school, and even if some things were my fault, I shouldn't hang onto them… but I feel like I made a foundational mistake. I set my life up for him when I should have set it up for me. I cast him in my role, and what a surprise, I feel like I picked the wrong actor. Watching him succeed doesn't bother me because it's success. It bothers me because it's not what _I_ would have picked for him. I never had trouble being proud of him in high school because we were doing the same things. Now that we're on divergent paths, I feel like one half of me is going one way and the other half is going another. I feel like I'm giving up my life.

And on top of that, I'm not ready to be _married_. I'm not used to seeing him when I wake up in the morning, not used to going over grocery lists or deciding what temperature to keep the apartment at. You'd think that senior year would have prepared me, but it didn't. And maybe nothing could. Maybe we could have dated five years and I would feel the same way, but that doesn't matter now. This _is_ the situation we're in.

"Kurt?" Blaine's voice echoes into the bathroom. "Kurt, are you all right?"

I cough into the toilet, wanting him to come in, wanting to cry in his arms and tell him everything. But I can't. I can't take a risk that big.

"I'm fine!" I call. "I'll be out in a minute! I must have eaten something! Airport food's notorious for salmonella!"

"Is that pretty dangerous?"

"No, everybody gets it! I'm still up for the Lima Bean if you are!"

"Are you sure?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world! It's our place!"

I hear his footsteps fade away and I stand up unsteadily to look at myself in the mirror. Pale, flushed, wet. You could trace my tear tracks with a marker they're so pronounced. I put the lid down on the toilet and sit on it, holding my head in my hands. I keep swallowing, but I can't wash the acid out of my mouth. I have the urge to lie underneath the shower spray until the tub fills up enough that I'm underwater. At least it would be quiet. At least I would be hidden.

"Are you ready yet?"

"I'll need a few minutes, B."

I run my hands through my hair and watch tears drip onto the bathroom rug. I need to be with him, but I know I shouldn't be, not right now. I'll take everything he says the wrong way. But since I can't exactly tell him that without revealing the whole monster, I'll just have to handle it. I stand up, splash my face with cold water, brush my teeth and restyle my hair. I stretch as high as I can reach and then I take a deep breath.

"Ready!" I shout, coming out of the bathroom.

Blaine appears in the foyer. "Great. Drive or walk?"

"Walk. Fresh air sounds good."

He smiles. "Still remember my coffee order?"

I have to laugh. "I think so."

We go out the door and take hands. It's still early enough to be frosty, the grass tips wearing little white beards; the sun's just peeking over the houses; dogs are barking, voices stretched in the cold, empty air.

"Do you feel all right now?" Blaine asks, squeezing my hand.

"I feel fine. I think it was that energy drink."

"Told you so," he says lightly.

We walk silently for a few minutes, looking around at the familiar oak trees and tire swings. The small river that borders the street is frozen over and the Coca Cola plant is shut down on Saturday, looking post-apocalyptic. We turn up Pierce Street, and we're so alone – so alone – that it seems like the entire town of Lima has been abandoned. Normally, walking hand in hand with Blaine, I would be relieved for the lack of observers, but right now, I feel more threatened by the emptiness than I ever could by people. I feel like easy pickings.

"I didn't think this would feel so foreign," Blaine says softly, looking up at a tall brick duplex. "I thought this would feel like coming home."

I weigh every single one of his words, toss them around internally, try to fit them in compartments and sense where they might be headed.

"Nothing really feels like home anymore," I reply, trying to make my voice steady and unreadable.

"You feel like home, Hon."

I blink back the automatic tears. It's not what he said– I expected that. It's what he called me. He calls me Babe and Sweetheart and Love, but not Hon. Never Hon. Hon feels too familiar and provincial. And of course I'm reading into it too much, but I take it as one more step toward the fall.

What was I thinking, coming out here alone with him? What better opportunity could I have given him? And if he does ask me, I know how it will go. I'll try to seem happy – and some part of me, maybe the biggest part of me – will be. But as soon as he's gotten the ring on my finger, I'll start to cry hysterically, and at first, he'll think it's just an overwhelming emotional response, but then he'll realize that I'm reaching for a gun to shoot him with. And then what will he think? That I lied to him for two years?

How do I contain this? Is there even anything _to_ contain? Maybe I'm making the entire thing up in my head. And what does that mean? That I'm severely paranoid and need major counseling? That Blaine is the _last_ person I should be with?

All I know is that I'm barely breathing right now.

When we get to the Lima Bean, we see Artie and I'm spared for a least a few minutes.

"Whaaat!" he yells, wheeling towards us. "What are you two doing here?"

"We came to see _Grease_!" says Blaine and Artie grins.

"You two are the best. How are you doing in New York, Kurt?"

"Painting the town red," I tell him, smiling widely. "Finn says that _Grease_ is really—"

"Blaine!"

Tina rushes out from the corner of the coffee shop and flings her arms around him, almost knocking him over

"Oh, why did you leave?" she says, still holding on. "We _needed_ you for Danny Zuko! I mean, I love Ryder, but you would have been _so _good!"

Tina's girl crush on Blaine, which I'd normally laugh at, is really not helping my attitude.

"I wanted to be with Kurt, Tina!" Blaine explains, pushing her away as politely as he knows how.

"But we _needed_ you! And my mom says you'll never get into college! Beauty School Dropout, anyone?"

"McKinley's a beauty school?"

I turn around and sure enough, there's Brittany, arm-in-arm with Sam.

"That would actually make _no_ sense_,_" says Sam. "You know, Blaine being a beauty school dropout. The guy's hair is like a freaking work of art."

"I brought brownies!" calls yet another voice from the door – this one coming from a small, slim brunette with sparkly eyes.

"Hey, Marley!" shouts Blaine, waving her over.

"Blaine! Hi!"

Then two more people come in the door – one's tall, gangly, sort of a muddy American type, and the other is a bi-racial, block-of-wood, angry jock type. Together, they look like Edward and Jacob, and surprise, surprise, they've both got their eyes on unsuspecting Marley – until a leggy blond Cheerio struts through the door.

Artie looks at me and Blaine. "I swear, I didn't plan this. We're just here for our pre-rehearsal java. Hey! Where's my Rizzo?"

"She said she needs her beauty sleep!" shouts the jock type – who I realize, upon closer inspection, _must_ be related to Puck.

"Don't we all?" asks the cheerleader, rolling her goggly fish eyes and flipping her pony tail. "Oh, it's Blaine!"

"Hey, everybody!" Blaine says, giving a broad wave. "For those of you who don't know, this is my boyfriend Kurt Hummel. And Kurt, this is Jake, Marley, Ryder, and Kitty."

Kitty walks up to me, looking me up and down. "I bet you think you're really delightful."

"Be nice, Kitty," says Ryder, stepping up to shake my hand. "According to Mr. Shue, we're lost at sea without our famous countertenor. Nice to meet you."

Marley shoots Ryder a smile, and then she opens the tin of brownies in front of me. "I'm not eating carbs, but you're welcome to have one."

Before I can do so, however, another voice booms across the coffee shop. "Calm down, Santana is in the building!"

Santana? Why weren't we told about that?

"Did no one order my white mocha?" she goes on, taking off her jacket and using Artie's chair as a coat rack. "That is unacceptable! Artie, consider that atrophied little ass of yours _fired_."

Finn comes in next, with significantly less stage presence, and then Rachel bursts in.

"So much for a quiet walk down memory lane," mumbles Blaine as the New Directions erupt over Rachel.

"Let's order and get out of here," I say.

We step up to the counter. The barista – who's potentially the only other gay guy in Lima - recognizes us.

"It's K and B! I missed you guys. The usual?"

"Medium drip for him," I tell him.

"And a grande nonfat mocha for him," Blaine says, smiling.

The New Directions take up about twenty more minutes of our time, and then we're walking down the street again, clinging to the warmth of our coffee cups. As we pass the tennis courts, I feel my jacket catch on something, but I ignore it.

Glee Club. It used to be the only thing that made me feel alive, and now I'm just another visitor. I've never ached for home this much. I've never had this much trouble finding it. And I've never wanted to believe in Blaine's words as much as I do now.

_You're my home_.

Am I? Is this? Will I ever know?

* * *

When we get back to the house, I camp out in front of the fire with a stack of _Vogue_ magazines. Carole sits with me, organizing recipes and Dad watches the big game while noshing on too many nachos. Blaine plays piano quietly and Finn hums along to the tune, a few notes behind.

It's everything a home is, but I can't shake the empty feeling, and my rage and uncertainty is going towards one person. Blaine. All the slight injustices from the past two years are surfacing again and creating a wolf in my mind. Singing to Jeremiah, getting drunk and kissing Rachel, thinking he was bisexual and somehow expecting my support for that, fighting me for the role in _West Side Story_, dancing with Sebastian and then trying to have sex with me even though he was too drunk to possibly remember it the next day, modeling, the phone number…

When those fights occurred, I didn't think it was possible for them to ever hurt more than they did at the time. But they do. Without the details that made them seem human and justifiable, they're just a long list of wrongs, and they sting like lemon juice on a cut.

For the first time, I want him to hurt. I want him to hurt so I'm not so alone in my pain.

My anxiety finally reaches a climax as I get dressed to go to _Grease_. I'm alone, buttoning up my shirt, when I spot his suitcase. Before my conscious mind can catch up, I've dumped it out and looked through everything – unfolded the socks, opened all the compartments, shaken the entire bag upside down – to try and find it. The ring. But it's not here. It's not anywhere. He must have it with him. He's probably had it all day.

I sink down into his clothes in defeat and bring one of his shirts to my face. I breathe deeply and there it is – that subtle, slightly spicy warmth that is singularly Blaine. I start to cry.

It's too late. I can feel it coming. I'm going to ruin everything. I don't know when or how, but that's what will happen. It will be me, because it was always me. All he's ever done is tried to do what's right, tried to make me feel like I'm loved and wanted, tried to give me a home. All I've ever done is thrown it away, and I'll do it again. I always do.

Blaine opens the door. "Are you almost re—?" his voice dies. "Kurt, are you crying?"

I shake silently, still holding his shirt. I wish I had a real confession to make. I wish I could say that I cheated or lied or ran over his cat. Something to give him. Something to hold onto other than the realization that I might actually be losing my mind.

"I'm, I'm not crying, I just—"

But he's knelt beside me and hugged me close before I can get the words out. Any other night, I would be thankful. Any other night, I'd lean into him and cry and let him tell me that the world is all right. But tonight, his response just reminds me of how inadequate I am, how I wouldn't do the same for him.

"Kurt, what's wrong, sweetheart?"

I shake my head, unable to form words. Finally, I whisper, "Everything."

* * *

Blaine manages to pull me together enough that I can go to _Grease_. I tell him that I don't want to talk, that I don't know any more than he does. He doesn't believe me, and why would he? I'm a wreck. I feel exactly like I did when Dad was in the hospital – trapped in a sterile, unfeeling room, waiting for what can only be bad news. It's coming. I know it's coming.

Blaine tries to coax things out of me on the way to McKinley, but his careful, professional tone is only reinforcing the memory of hospitals and loss. I wasn't very old, but I remember everything about the moment when we learned it was over for Mom. The doctor's face. His eyes, tiny behind the thick lenses of his glasses. The paperwork in his hand. The false potted plants, the poster about migraines, the smell of rubbing alcohol and air freshener.

His voice was so distant, it might as well have been a recording.

"Well, Mr. and Mrs. Hummel, we received the test results this morning."

Mom had leaned forward, smiling a little too hopefully. I was sitting on her lap, face pressed against her chest. I wouldn't have been there at all, but I was running a fever and couldn't be at school. So I was there, in the doctor's office with them, hating the hospital though I didn't yet have a reason to.

"And we learned…" the doctor sighed a heavy, important sigh, "…that your tumor is inoperable. I'm sorry."

Mom's hands tightened on me and Dad ran a hand over his face.

"So, w-what does that mean?" asked Mom in a high, trembling voice that lately, I've been too familiar with. "Does that mean I'm—"

"We're looking at a few weeks, Mrs. Hummel."

We drove home in silence. Mom tucked me into bed and I asked if everything was all right. She said it was, but I knew something was off, something about that doctor, the look on his lined, unhealthy face. So I sneaked out of bed when I heard my parents' hushed voices, stood in the doorway to the kitchen in my dinosaur pajamas, and listened.

"What are we going to do about Kurt?"

Mom was sitting on a barstool, clinging to a mug of coffee, and Dad was standing behind her, holding her. She was wrapped in a sky blue blanket that matched her eyes.

I still see her eyes in the mirror every morning, because I have her eyes, down to the slight angle of my right iris. Identical.

"I don't know, Betts," Dad said quietly.

"What are we going to tell him?"

"I'm not sure we should tell him anything. He's just a little kid."

Mom's face wrinkled and she started to cry. "He needs his mother, Burt! He's, he's different than other kids!"

Then dad was crying, too, bending his head close to hers. I wanted to be included, so I glided out from the shadow and hugged Mom's legs.

"I want to cry, too, Mom."

And then she did something that surprised me – she laughed. Her laughter broke through the fog of uncertainty like bells. I wish I would be able to hear that laugh on my wedding day, because it's the softest, clearest sound in the world. No bell could ever compare to her laugh.

She lifted me up onto her lap and rocked me back and forth, half laughing, half sobbing, and that was our goodbye. Because three days later, she didn't recognize me or dad. Three days after that, she couldn't move half her body. And three weeks after that, she was gone.

When she was healthy, she reminded me of Julie Andrews – beautiful, wide-eyed, smiling like she knew a secret than no one else knew. She was bright, energetic, and graceful, so warm and so attentive that any flaws – and I could never find any – were erased. It was like she was three people in one body, too alive to contain, certainly too alive to die. And to see her dissolve? To see the light drain out of her eyes and be replaced by a dim, milky film? To see her lose control of a body that was once fizzy with joy and hope and dreams?

It wasn't comprehensible.

Blaine and I pull into the McKinley parking lot.

"Kurt, are you really up for this?"

I nod and unlatch my seat belt. "Stretchable leather and 70's culture? How could I refuse?"

"Kurt, you seem really, really broken up about something," he goes on. "This is sort of reminding me of the phone number."

"I'm not going to run down the street in my pajamas again, if that's what you're asking. C'mon. We're going to be late.

We meet Finn and Rach outside the East entrance to the school and walk in together.

"You look very handsome, Kurt!" says Rachel. "I love the shirt. Where did you get it?"

"H&M, I think. You really like it?"

"Really like it," she says warmly. "Sometimes I look at you and I just want to keep you in a birdcage in my room. You're like a lovely little dove."

"You know what you should do?" asks Finn. "You should get cloned and three hundred of you should get hired on a cruise ship – you're like the perfect guy to carry around those trays of champagne."

"I think I would rather be the dove," I laugh.

"I'd forget to feed you, though," sighs Rachel. "At least you'd be cared for on the cruise ship."

"No! I have a better idea!" shouts Finn as we walk past the Spanish room. "You and Blaine should make miniature figurines of yourselves and put them in a snow globe!"

"Yeah, that wouldn't be gay at all," I retort as we step up to the ticket booth. "Hey, Rach, want to look around, go see our old lockers? Blaine and Finn can save our seats."

"Mm, yes! Is that all right, you guys?"

Blaine shrugs, impassive, and Finn nods, so Rachel and I link arms and start off down the hallway. She looks over her shoulder at Finn at the last second and gives me a pained look, but doesn't say anything.

"I know you, Rach," I say quietly. "Tell me what that was about."

She sniffles. "I was just thinking about how we work better together when we're not romantically involved. We can be friends and get along, but any more than that and we fall apart." She smiles and leans her head on my shoulder. "It's good, though. I think he'll really find what he wants. He's never had that dream like us…never had that one thing that's more important than eating and breathing."

"Maybe it's this," I say gesturing around the high school. "Grease. Teaching."

"Yeah, he's such a sweetheart," she sighs. "He'd be good at that."

"Oh, look," I say, letting go of her, "it's your locker…next to my locker."

We step up to them, smiling distantly.

"I'm glad my locker was next to yours," she says. "You always let me know when I was getting overexcited or needed a reality check—"

"Which was every day."

"—and we'd talk and comfort each. Gosh, I miss the high-school Kurt, the Kurt that needed help and protection and guidance. You're a man now and I have nothing to say to you."

"Well, that certainly hasn't stopped you."

"It's not fair," she goes on. "You're so smart and successful and handsome! God, you're so handsome." She smiles and leans against the lockers. "The first day of Junior year, I saw you in the hallway and almost didn't recognize you because you'd changed so much…and again now…you're just…different."

"I'm still a freaked out, closeted kid inside," I tell her, running my fingertips over the vent on the locker.

"I'm still an arrogant little grandmother," she replies.

I smile and look down at the white tile floor. "I wish I could open that locker and have it take me back…just a year…I wouldn't ask for more than that. If I could live the rest of my life in Senior year, with B-Blaine…" I shut my eyes. "…and never have to worry about, about…"

"Are you all right?"

"I'm alone and homeless and constantly catching my breath. I feel like I'm going to die."

Rachel wraps her arms around me. "Too sad. _Grease_ is about things working out." She pulls back and smiles at me. "I swear Kurt, you are the reason I carry around portable Kleenex." She pulls two out of her pocket, one for me and one for her. "Now, come on – happy memories! Remember that time you got out of that date with Mercedes by saying that you had a thing for me?"

I laugh, but another voice fills the hallway, and suddenly Mercedes is strutting up to us. We talk to her until we hear the bell calling everyone to the auditorium, and then we sneak down to the second row and sit next to Blaine.

He leans close and whispers, "I just realized that we met _exactly_ a year ago."

My eyes trail down to the red upholstery of the chairs and I murmur, "November 9th, 2010. I fell in love with you at _we'll be young forever. _That was the moment."

He smiles. "I was just picking someone to sing to…I always do that when I'm performing…and it wasn't until we were sitting together in that café…that I realized I felt something. _Something_. I didn't know what at that point…but it was different. You were different."

"That's pretty fluky," I say quietly. "To be back here on that date, watching _Grease_. It's almost like you planned it."

He brushes his thumb over my cheekbone and raises an eyebrow, exactly like he did last night when he asked if I was serious about getting married. Then the curtain rises and I can't help thinking…goodbye_._

* * *

_Grease_ is good. Marley's voice is wonderful, Ryder's got more going on in the pelvis than Elvis, and Santana stuns as Rizzo. Rachel is captivated – and a little tortured – by it. Her eyes never leave the stage during _You're The One that I Want_.

Neither do Blaine's. He's transfixed. Everything about him is tight – his hands, his jaw – like he's crouched in a closet, waiting as soldiers pass by, not daring to breathe. I've been with him long enough to know he's talking himself through something – talking himself into something.

Rachel starts to cry as Ryder and Marley skip off stage. She stands up and files out into the walkway.

"What are you doing?" I whisper.

"I just, I just need a minute."

I need a minute, too, but I stay in my seat to observe Blaine. There's no doubt in my mind that he's going to ask me to marry him. It all fits together too well –the fact that we're here on November 9th clinched it for me. That is classic Blaine.

And while I want to say I'm still unsure, still figuring out what I might say…I do know what I'll say. I'll say no. And that's the end of our relationship. People like to say it isn't a problem to refuse a marriage proposal, but it is. It always is. Nothing is ever quite the same afterwards.

After the curtain call, I go off to find Rachel. By myself, in the familiar halls, I feel a little better. Maybe if I slip home, have a cup of tea and get a good sleep, I'll be able to see things differently. Maybe I'll wake up next to Blaine and realize that I would be lost without him, realize that that's actually the right emotion, that it doesn't make me weak or dependent. If I can just get out of here, unseen, then _maybe_—

"Kurt!" Blaine calls. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

I turn around, thinking I'll spiral, thinking I won't be able to do it…but being cornered has a way of clarifying things faster than you ever thought was possible. I realize what I have to do.

I take a sharp breath and say it fast, like tearing off a band-aid.

"Blaine, I can't marry you."

He stares at me, dumbfounded. "What?"

"I – I'm sorry. I just can't. I know you were planning on asking me and I really—"

"Kurt, I wasn't. I wasn't going to ask you."

My pulse pounds in my throat, too hot, too strong. This isn't possible. I couldn't have invented this whole thing in my mind.

"You weren't going to ask me?" I whisper.

He shakes his head.

"What was last night about?"

"I was…just…I was feeling really close to you and I was thinking about what you said about surprises. I was trying to keep that in mind for the future…but, God, I wasn't going to ask you tonight."

"But it's November 9th! It's the day we met!" I feel the tears rising in my eyes. "It's _Grease_!"

"Wait, do you want me to ask you?"

"No! I just, I didn't want to be led on! I didn't sleep! This is why I threw up, Blaine!"

"Kurt, I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't think you'd take it that way."

"So this is my fault? You led me on, Blaine! I dumped out your whole fucking suitcase looking for a ring!"

"God, Kurt, I – I really didn't think – I should have – I'm – I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

"You never think about how your actions affect me, Blaine! You didn't even ask if you could move to New York!"

"I thought you wanted me in New York!"

"It's not about wanting you there! It's about what we agreed to! We said you'd finish school! That was meaningful to me, Blaine! We were going to hold out on our own and get stronger because of the distance! And maybe it would have been fine, but you didn't ask me!" My words are coming in between sobs now. "I couldn't handle it, Blaine, and I tried to tell you that, but you don't listen to what I say. You might love me but you don't _listen_ to me."

"Yes I do! You never told me that you couldn't handle—"

"I know what I said, Blaine! When we were sitting outside after I had that nightmare? I told you that I was torn between the past and the future and wasn't on solid ground and didn't know what I was doing! You don't remember that?"

"I thought you meant that we were going to work through it together! And you can't exactly talk! You practically proposed to me the night after that!"

"But that was _me_!"

"Oh, so you can take big steps, but I can't?"

"You're not the one that breaks down like this, Blaine!"

"And that gives you the right to all the power?"

"I need it more than you!"

"You know what you are?" he snarls. "You're one of those people that pretends to have a problem – pretends that they're disabled, that they're dyslexic, that they have a bad metabolism – just so they get special consideration. It's insulting."

"Do I look like I'm pretending?!" I scream, stepping back and throwing my arms wide. "Does this look fake to you? What'll it take, Blaine? Finding me bleeding on the kitchen floor with my wrists slit?" I choke back a sob. "You never listen! You never believe me! I'm just a stupid, disposable little boy that you're using for practice until you find someone better! Because why would you want this?" I gesture down at myself. "It doesn't matter that I've given you everything! It doesn't matter how much I try! You just want the perfect end result because that's what you've been given your whole life!" I whisk my hands over my face. "Well, I'm sorry! I'm sorry I didn't live up to your expectations!"

"Do you have any idea how selfish it is to keep all that inside?" he shouts. "You need to tell me how you feel, Kurt!"

"You really want to know?" I shout back. "You _really_ want to?"

"Yes!"

"Fine," I say quietly. "Fuck you."

For a fraction of a second, neither of us breathe. Then Blaine looks down and nods.

"Well, I'm sorry, Kurt," he says, and then he turns around, walks down the hallway, and disappears. I'm left alone with nothing but the sound of my own heartbeat to distract me. I hug myself tightly, running my hands up and down my arms and – what's that?

I glance at my left sleeve – there's a little rip in it and the threads are pouring out like silkworms. I'm unraveling.

* * *

**Okay, two quick questions:**

**To Seblaine or not to Seblaine? That is the question. **

**Kadam or no? I said I wasn't going to include Adam, but now I'm not so sure.**

**Thank you for your brilliance and inspiration! Oh, and just because I haven't fangirled out in a while, let me just say - if you haven't seen the Byrant Park Filming for **_**Glee, Actually**_**, you have to go and watch it. NOW. Because guess what? Darren can ice skate like an Olympian and Chris, well, he kind of looks like a baby giraffe trying to stand for the first time. It's freaking adorable and is almost *almost* making a CrissColfer believer out of me. **

**Hopefully the next chapter will be up soon! It's the one I've been the most excited about! Oh, and it's in Blaine's perspective in case you were getting bored with Kurt!**

**xxCheersxx**


	12. Back to the Start

**UPDATE 8/17/13: **

**This chapter got kind of weird. I was going to do Part 1 and Part 2, but I nixed that. (I'm on a road trip right now and I didn't think I'd have time to do Chapter 12 justice, but I ended up having time after all.) So I lengthened Part 1 (this) and the next chapter will be it's own thing. Hopefully that makes sense...**

**ANYWAY, even if you've read this chapter, check it out again because I added more flashbacks (starting after the ****_Blackbird_**** one.) This chapter now includes the kiss. THE FIRST KISS! : )**

**The A/N below is old. Read it if you want - it contains a good story!**

**Hi you guys,**

**I'm really, really sorry for the long wait.****My mom got in car crash this weekend when she was visiting friends in Seattle...the driver passed out and their car went over the center line, narrowly missed another car, hit a tree at 45 miles per hour and then flipped three times...It was pretty bad, but everybody's alive. My mom's actually completely fine - no broken bones or anything. But it was shocking and scary and I've been in a daze for a few days now. It's kind of freaky, because I was planning on going on that trip and decided not to at the last minute. Can't stop thinking about that...**

**This chapter actually turned out kind of sweet. I went back through the whole Klaine romance with flashbacks (got about halfway through, next chapter will be the other half.) Hopefully it turned out well!**

**It's all in Blaine's perspective.*Flashbacks are in**_**italics**_**.***

* * *

I don't know how to make this phone call.

_I walk as fast as I can across the icy parking lot, tears forming in my eyes, heart thumping in my throat painfully. My body wants to convulse and shake and deteriorate. It wants to let go of things like breathing because there just isn't room. There is only one thing left, and it's ripping me up._

_I walk the back route to my house. It's cold outside, but I'm thankful for the distraction. The night is coming back in broken, flashing cinders. Things I should have noticed – his smile slightly faltering, his eyes widening in fear – are so clear to me now. But I don't blame myself. You can't perceive certain things in real time. They have to come back to you to make sense. But Kurt knew. I'm sure of it. He was sensing something I couldn't sense._

_I get to my house. My parents are skiing in Aspen at the moment, so I use the spare key to let myself inside. As I take off my jacket and turn on the lights, I try to recreate what happened. I try to find a bridge that will let me back in. But there are no bridges left._

_I'm already reaching for my old car keys. I can't sleep here. My room has too many memories._

_By the time I pull up along the wooded roadside in Westerville, it's late and deeply cold. I spend a minute outside of my car, staring at the hazy sky. There's something wrong about a cold, hazy sky; it should be cold and clear._

_I climb over the fence and walk towards the house, ignoring the security light that beams onto me. I know that his room is downstairs, so I walk down some slab rock steps and look around the backyard. There's a door underneath the porch. I go up to it and knock._

_A light flickers on inside, a lock clicks and then the door swings wide. Sebastian gives a hiss of annoyance and steps outside, shutting the door behind him._

_"Are you out of your mind?" he asks. "What are you doing here?"_

_I watch the cold, white fog of his breath. There's something comforting about his breathing. He's alive and vulnerable like I am._

_I push him against the door and kiss him softly. He makes a small, startled noise and presses against me, knotting his fingers in my hair. The way he smells, like oil paints; his taste, tannic; the slight roughness of his hands. He is everything that Kurt isn't._

_We kiss feverishly until the security light goes out above us. Then he pulls me inside by my shirt._

_"What are we doing?" he mumbles as he slides my coat off. "What are you doing?"_

_"I don't know," I admit. "I don't care."_

_We kiss again, bodies flush, nothing implied._

_"This is stupid," he says, pulling away, voice even more gravelly than usual. "This is really stupid."_

_I grab him against me again. "I said I don't care."_

_He undoes the top button of my shirt and presses his mouth to my neck. I lean my head against the wall, eyelids flickering, breath catching in my throat. He scrapes his teeth over my skin, not bothering to soothe the slight sting with a kiss like Kurt would, and I tug his shirt out of his pants, running my hands over his skin._

_He pulls back, out of breath. "Blaine. We can't do this."_

_I stare at him, bending my thumb into his ribs. He shakes his head and steps away. My hands slide off his body._

_"We can't do this," he says again. "I'm not doing this to Kurt."_

_I look down and swallow. I try to say okay. I try to say something. But I start to cry instead. It's seeping in like water through cupped hands. Guilt._

_Sebastian sighs sharply, but puts his arm around me and leads me over to the couch._

_"I should have known you'd ruin my sleep again," he mutters. "I'll get you something to drink. Tea, coffee – what do you want?"_

_I shake my head. "I don't want anything."_

_"Well, you're getting something. What do you want?"_

_"Tea," I say in a hollow, shaking voice. "Tea's fine."_

I don't know how to make this phone call.

It's seven in the morning and the sun is barely up. I'm curled up on Sebastian's couch, in the same position I was in last night. My tea is still on the table next to me, ice cold, not a sip taken from it. My stomach is in a knot. I can't drink anything without it cramping. I can't stand up without it cramping. I don't know if I'll ever be able to get up again. I'm a guilt-ridden mess.

"Rise and shine – your flight leaves a few hours."

Sebastian strides across the room in his Warbler blazer and throws the curtains open. When I don't respond, he turns and looks at me.

"Look," he says. "I'm not good at putting people back together and I'm not going to try. Get up, get your shit together and accept you made a mistake. It's not the end of the world."

"Sebastian, he, he's not going to forgive me for this. I know him."

"Well, whatever he did was bad enough to send you running to me. Unless you have incredibly thin skin, I would say you're even."

"We're not even."

Sebastian sighs. "Fine. What does that mean? Are you breaking up? What? I need to know because frankly, I don't want my dad to come down here and find you. I need to put you somewhere and you're not exactly the size of a folding chair."

I sit up and my head swims a little. I feel like I drank too much.

"I haven't told him yet. I don't know what it means."

"Call him," he demands. "Right now. That is one conversation I'm not having with my dad unless I have to."

"I'm not calling him in front of you."

Sebastian swears under his breath and leaves the room with a look of great sacrifice. I take a breath and dial Kurt's number before I lose my nerve.

"Blaine?" he answers, sounding frantic. "Where were you last night?"

"I was…" I curl my knees against my chest and pause for a long time. "…I was at Sebastian's, Kurt."

He swallows. "Wh-why were you at Sebastian's?"

There's defeat in his voice, but there's a little lingering hope, too. Lying would be so easy. He would believe me. He wants to believe me too much not to. But I can't lie.

"I kissed him, but it didn't mean—"

"No," Kurt interrupts, voice trembling. "Don't say anything. I don't want to hear it."

"Kurt—"

"We're done. This is done. I don't want you to come back to New York with me."

"Kurt—"

"I said that we're done, Blaine!" There's a little bit of poison in his voice now. "We're done! I'm breaking up with you!"

"Kurt, I—I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I can't—"

My voice dies suddenly. It's no use. Everything has changed. I can either fight for what we had or surrender, and I'm going to fight.

"You don't even know what happened!"

"What are you going to tell me?" he spits. "That it wasn't serious? That you only kissed? That you didn't care about him? I don't care about any of that! Relationships are about trust and I don't trust you anymore!"

"This is _our_ decision! You're not allowed to walk away from this! Not after two years!"

"I'm not walking away, Blaine! There's nothing to walk away from! You made sure of that!"

"You had nothing to do with it? You don't think hearing 'fuck you' stung a little bit?"

"You _cheated_ Blaine! You _cheated_!" He pauses briefly and bites the next words. "I hope it was worth it. I hope you had the night of your life. Maybe when you're dying together in one of those freaky little AIDS clinics – maybe _then_ you'll see how much you ruined."

My eyes prickle again and I swallow hard.

"I'm going to go back to New York by myself," he goes on, "and I'm going to get into NYADA and I'm going to find someone better than you. Don't call me. Don't call Rachel. We're done. Goodbye."

The line goes quiet and I slide the phone shut. For an instant, I don't move, and then I'm sobbing more hysterically than I can ever remember.

"Are you off the phone because if you a—" Sebastian's voice dies. "Oh." He gives an abridged sigh and sits down next to me. "I'm sorry."

"I c-can't, I d-don't...I don't have anywhere to go."

He nods. "It'll be all right. We'll figure something out."

"Sebastian!" A voice echoes from upstairs. "You're going to be late!"

"C'mon," says Sebastian. "We have to go."

"Go where?"

"Dalton. C'mon."

He lifts me to my feet and goes into his room to find a shirt for me to borrow. I spend a few minutes brushing my teeth and washing my face, and then I follow him into the garage. We pull out and start down the increasingly familiar driveway.

"I don't think I can go to Dalton right now. It's where we met."

"Would you like me to drop you off at this curb? That homeless man looks like really good company." He sighs, frustrated. "I'm sorry, but you've got to understand how awkward this is for me. I'm just starting to get along with my parents again but I actually care about you and I'm not sure what to do. And I said _care_ about you…not…you know what I mean. I'd still totally bang you but I'm not even remotely in love with you. God. Sorry. I haven't had my coffee. My mouth is unfiltered without coffee." He merges onto the highway. "Just tell me what you want to do. If you don't have a place to stay I'm the last person with a right to turn you away."

"I could stay at my house, but my…my parents aren't home and I need…I don't want to be alone right now."

"That's what suicide watch is for. Ugh. See what I mean? Unfiltered." He reaches into the back for a water bottle and hands it to me. "Drink that. You look like hell."

I pop the cap and take a long draft.

"What do you say?" he asks. "Want to stay with me? Want to go to your place?"

"I want you to stop talking."

He nods and focuses on the road. We pull up to Dalton and he gets out immediately, snatching his bag out of the back. He tosses me the car keys.

"Don't total it."

I watch him disappear into Dalton, overwhelmed. Overwhelmed because he could so easily be Kurt on a cold Monday morning, stumbling into school and focusing on the imminence of a cup of coffee. Overwhelmed because he so clearly isn't Kurt. Overwhelmed because he managed to park in the parking spot Kurt and I would usually park in.

Memories begin to surface slowly. I know I should send them away, but I can't. Some part of me wants to be consumed. Some part of me thinks that the grief and guilt will burn itself out. So I lean back, close my eyes and let the memories in.

_"Excuse me?"_

_I turn around and look up the staircase, faltering a little bit when I see who spoke to me. He's certainly not a Dalton student. Even outside of school, I've never seen anyone quite like him. His eyes make me think he knows the meaning of life._

_"Um, hi," he says, his voice like gossamer. "Can I ask you a question? I'm new here."_

_I shake his hand. "My name's Blaine."_

_"Kurt," he replies, smiling. We drop hands and he looks around at the waterspout of activity. "So…what's going on?"_

_"The Warblers. Every now and then they throw an impromptu performance in the Senior Commons." I grin. "It tends to shut the school down for a while."_

_He hesitates. "So, wait, the Glee Club here is kind of cool?"_

_"The Warblers are like…" I search for the right word, "…rock stars."_

_He raises an eyebrow, seeming to question my mental health. He's probably right to, considering the next thing I do is in its own category of stupid. I take his hand…his left with my right, tangling us up like a lanyard…and lead him down the last few steps._

_"I know a shortcut," I explain. I pull him through the English classroom and down a large, mostly unused hallway, never letting go. I glance over at him, thinking I should say something, and see there's no reason to. He's open-mouthed, taking in the immodest pomp that is Dalton, eyes flashing in surprise and interest and – what's that? Hope, maybe?_

_I open the doors to the Senior Commons and let go of him He pulls his bag closer to his body and breathes out unsteadily, looking around at the Warblers as they move tables and create a makeshift stage._

_"I stick out like a sore thumb," he says softly._

_"Well, next time don't forget your jacket, new kid."_ _I tug a little on the collar of his coat and then smooth it out. His eyes flicker into mine, mouth twitching involuntarily._ _"You'll fit right in," I tell him. I smack his shoulder lightly and set my bag on the table next to me as the music starts. "Now if you'll excuse me…"_

_Wes shoots me an exasperated, better-late-than-never look as I join him and the Warblers, but I don't mind. I'm singing, and when I'm singing, there's nothing but the patterns, the notes and the way my voice wraps around them. I've always had a bond with music that makes me feel like I'm part of something bigger than myself, even if I'm alone with a guitar and nothing else._

"Before you met me, I was all right, but things were kinda heavy. You brought me to life. Now every February, you'll be my valentine –val-en-tine!"

_My eyes lock on Kurt's. I always pick someone to look at when I sing, and he's new, and hot, and why not?_

"Let's go all the way tonight, no regrets, just love. We can dance until we die, you and I, we'll be young for-ev-a!"

_I settle into the usual harmony, but today there's some sort of…pull. That's the best way to describe it. No matter how much I try to lose myself to the music, I stay on the surface of reality so I can still see him. Kurt. He's the pull. His smile's just a little bit too wide for me to look away from._

"You make me feel like I'm livin' a teenage dream, the way you turn me on. I can't sleep. Let's run away and don't ever look back, don't ever look…let's go all the way tonight, no regrets, just love. We can dance until we die, you and I, we'll be young for-ev-a!"

_Kurt suddenly seems overcome by something. It's subtle, but it's there. His smile is softer, more thoughtful, and his eyes appear to have darkened and deepened. I'm not sure what to think. Maybe there's a memory connected with this song? He looks like he's pulling something out of his subconscious, something like a memory. But that's not exactly right. It's not a memory. Maybe a realization?_

_For a whole verse, we hold each other's gaze, and I'm filled with a feeling I'm not used to – at least not about another person. It's more like what I feel with my music. A sense of belonging. A sense of being needed.__And then we both look away and surround ourselves with the song. His smile returns. I dance a little better. But we exchanged something, I'm sure of it._

"You make me feel like I'm livin' a teenage dream, the way you turn me on. I can't sleep. Let's run away and don't ever look back, don't ever look…I'm a get your heart racing in my skin-tight jeans, be your teenage dream tonight."

_I look at Kurt again. I can't help it. I'm singing this to him, not at him. I need to look into his eyes and nod at him and emphasize lyrics I wouldn't normally emphasize._

"Yoooouuu…you make me feel like I'm livin' a teenage dream, the way you turn me on."

_His smile bursts into a grin when I point at myself._

"I can't sleep. Let's run away and don't ever look back, don't ever look back. My heart stops when you look at me. Just one touch, now baby, I believe. This is real. So take a chance and don't ever look back, don't ever look…I'm a get your heart racing in my skin-tight jeans, be your teenage dream tonight."

_The song winds down. I make sure that my eyes are locked on his for the last verse._

"Let you put your hands on me in my skin-tight jeans, be your teenage dream tonight."

_His lips part slightly, and then he collects himself and claps emphatically. I shake hands with a few of the Warblers, and then Wes and David take me aside. Ten minutes later, we're sitting with Kurt in the Dalton café. His eyes are bright with caution._

_"It's very civilized of you to invite me for coffee before you beat me up for spying," he says delicately._

_"We are not going to beat you up," Wes assures him._

_"You were such a terrible spy," David adds, "that we thought it was kind of endearing."_

_"Which made me think that spying on us," I go on, " wasn't really the reason you came."_

_Kurt looks down, seeming torn between relief and apprehension._

_"Can I ask you guys a question?"_

_We nod._

_"Are you guys all gay?"_

_Wes cracks up and then David and I fall into unheroic laughter. We've been asked this so many times that we've discussed getting labeled t-shirts._

_"Um, no," I finally get out. "I mean, I am, but these two have girlfriends." _

_"This isn't a gay school," David explains, trying – and failing – to ease Kurt's embarrassment. "We just have a zero-tolerance harassment policy."_

_"Everybody gets treated the same, no matter what they are," Wes puts in. "It's pretty simple."_

_Kurt tries to speak, but his eyes glaze over and he's left wordless, mouth narrowly parted. I watch him carefully, surprised at the little spot of pain in my chest. I'm used to over-caring, but I feel especially involved this time. Maybe it's because of what happened to me, but maybe some of it's him, too. I've sung to hundreds, maybe thousands, of people. I've felt a connection with a lot of them. But right now, sitting in this cafe, I realize the connection I had with Kurt was a little bit different._

_"Will you give us a few minutes?" I ask Wes and David._

_They nod and leave._

_"I take it you're having trouble at school?" I ask Kurt._

_His eyes – which are now wet and full – slowly migrate back to mine._

_"I am the…only kid out of the closet at my school," he begins, a tear jumping down his cheek.. "And I tried to stay strong about it, but I…" He takes a steadying breath. "There is this Neanderthal who has made it his mission to make my life a living hell, and nobody seems to notice."_

_I nod. "I know how you feel. I got taunted at my old school and it really...it really pissed me off." I fix my eyes on the coffee menu, trying to keep certain memories at bay. "I even complained to the faculty. And they were sympathetic and all, but you could tell that nobody…really…cared." I smile sadly. "It was like, hey, if you're gay, you're life's just going to be miserable. Sorry. Nothing we can do about it. So I left. I came here. Simple as that." I pause. "You have two options. I mean, I'd love to tell you to just come enroll here, but tuition at Dalton is sort of steep and I know that's not an option for everybody …or… you can refuse to be the victim. Prejudice is just ignorance, Kurt, and you have a chance – right now – to teach him."_

_He meets my eyes, hopeful, his expression perched like a bird._

_"How?" he whispers._

_"Confront him!" I reply, leaning forward. "Call him out! I ran, Kurt. I didn't stand up. I let bullies chase me away and it is something that I really, really regret."_

_He smiles. "Thank you for the advice. I'll…I'll definitely think about it."_

_"I'm sorry if I said too much. I'm a deeply over-helpful person."_

_He laughs. "No, not at all. And I'm that way too. I have too many opinions – but this is really more than an opinion for you, isn't it? It's your life."_

_I nod. "It's my life."_

_He pulls his latte closer. "What else is your life?"_

I transfer to the driver's seat and listlessly push the keys into the ignition, but I don't start the car. I lean my head against the wheel and breathe in deeply, pressing my lips against the leather stitching. I swallow hard and a tremble reverberates through my body. I need to cry. I need to lie down and cry for hours. But something won't let me. Something is forcing me to stay in this limbo.

After we'd been together for a few months, he told me that he fell in love with me when I was singing that song. I remember being kind of electrified by that comment. I remember that we practically sprinted to his car to make out. But until now, I didn't think about what that meant. He was in love with me and I wasted almost three months being platonic and reassuring when I was the one who really needed advice. Three months that I could be remembering right now.

It can't really be true. That resilient connection can't have frayed and broken. We mean too much to each other. We're too much a part of each other. We like to say we're individuals, but we're not. We almost all put more effort into other people than into ourselves– and while it's not completely selfless – we couldn't imagine living alone. If he's gone, there won't be a lot of me left.

He wasn't entirely wrong about the proposal. I had thought about it all week after he mentioned getting married. I wasn't entirely lucid during that conversation when we were watching the snow fall. I was distracted by his touch, by fatigue. But if I remembered anything in the morning, I remembered that.

When we booked our flights and I realized we'd be in Ohio on the day we met…I began to seriously consider it. It was surprising – and a little scary – how easily the plots came into my mind. I was going to drive him to Dalton and ask him on the staircase where we met, or go to the Lima Bean and put a ring on top of his coffee cup where they usually put a chocolate covered bean, or sing John Legend's _Stay With You_to him in the choir room.

By the time we got on the plane, I had resolved to wait a little longer, but the damage was done. I had a different kind of energy all last week, and he could tell.

I'm usually close to him, but not dependent. But last week, I couldn't let go of him. I would get up with him early in the morning and hold him while he made his tea and gathered up papers and magazines. It was narcotic, leaning against him for warmth and support, barely awake and only dreamily aware of him. When he went to work, I would go back to bed or do useless things until he got home. And then I would adhere to him again, no matter what he was doing. I followed him around like a forgotten task.

It wasn't unusual for me to nestle incessantly with him, but it was normally more persuasive and suggestive. Not needy. Never anxious. But that's what it was last week. He wasn't bothered so much as confused. We'd go to bed and he'd give me an expectant look – which went right through me, like a lot of things apparently – and when I didn't respond, he'd turn over, a little knit in his brow, and go to sleep. He must have felt like he was misinterpreting things for days – and that might sound like a short time, but with a boyfriend, it's hard. One misunderstanding is unsettling enough. When you feel like you've lost your unspoken bond for days on end, you start to think something is wrong. And Kurt, who's inherently suspicious, probably thought the world was ending.

He always understood me so well, even in the very beginning. And I understood him. But it was a different kind of understanding. I could understand him but not us. He could always understand us. He realized we were in love when we fell in love. I realized it months later. What prevented me from seeing what was so obvious? Whatever it was, it's still here.

_"You know, Kurt," I say, heaving the last box onto the bed. "I think you over-moved. Unless your roommate can sleep in a matchbox...he's not going to have any space."_

_Kurt frowns, surveying the small dorm. "I only brought five boxes. And a trunk. And then there's the suitcase. But that's half of what I own, Blaine. I couldn't pare it down any more without having a major blood vessel explode."_

_"You realize that you're only allowed to wear your uniform, right?"_

_"I need clothes for the weekend. What if we go see a play?"_

_"Kurt, we could see a play every weekend for a year and you wouldn't run out of clothing."_

_He sighs. "They're my children. I couldn't leave them."_

_"I guess we could share," I suggest, just to see his expression. Sure enough, his brows pop into his hairline and his mouth hangs open slightly._

_"I wouldn't let you near my oldest, rattiest clothes, Blaine Anderson. Not after last week."_

_Mm. Last week. I may or may not have slid down a muddy hill on a dare and landed in the Dalton marsh._

_"Really," Kurt laughs. "You're like the straightest gay guy ever."_

_I laugh. "I'm not. You should see how I dress outside of school. I have skinny jeans in more colors than you can name."_

_"I can name a lot of colors, Blaine," he says seriously. Then he straightens up and sighs. "So. Where's the closet?"_

_"What closet?"_

_"Please tell me you're kidding."_

_"Nope. We usually just hang up our uniforms on the back of the bathroom door."_

_"I'm going to die here."_

_I put my hands on his shoulders. "You are going to do famously here. C'mon. Be brave. Pare down."_

_He rolls his eyes. "Fine."_

_I nod and let go of him. We start to unpack various, non-clothing items. He puts some music on his iPod. I unearth a cake pop pan and hold it up for him to see._

_"I thought there would be a kitchen here."_

_"Did you also think there would be an aviary? And indoor surfing? And a chocolate factory?"_

_He laughs. "A kitchen's not that exotic, Blaine." He pauses to look at me. "You don't have to be helping me, you know. Not that I'm complaining. But you should be enjoying the weekend."_

_"No one should move into their dorm alone, Kurt. And my weekends can get pretty lonely."_

_"Why is that?"_

_"My parents are never around," I explain, lifting a stack of hangers out of a box. "They live in Westerville but they're never actually here. Right now they're in Guadalajara." I shrug. "They're not bad people. They just read too much Conde Nast."_

_"Any siblings?" asks Kurt._

_"A brother, but he's never cared about me that much," I reply. "I guess that's what it is. It's not that they don't love me or support me. They just don't seem that interested in me. They never come to my performances, and it could be much worse with me being gay and all, but it's hard when I think about people like your parents."_

_He smiles sadly. "It's true that it could be worse, but that doesn't mean it's not hard."_

_I nod. "I know. But I really can't let myself feel too bad for myself when people like us are literally jumping off bridges because their parents can't accept them. My parents may not get it, but they don't persecute me for it."_

_"Well," says Kurt, examining a pair of dress shoes, " I still say you deserve better. And it's their loss, not coming to your performances."_

_I watch him fuss with a spot of dirt on the shoes and my grin slides into a soft smile._

_"You know, it's really nice to have someone who..."_

_He looks up and offers a coaxing smile._

_"...who understands me. I mean, Wes and David are great, but you just...get it."_

_He blushes and looks back at the shoes, but I see the smile working on his lips._

_"It's nice for me too," he replies after a while. "Think of Finn. He's not exactly the ideal person to run Gypsy lines with."_

_I laugh. "No. Not at all. That reminds me...I actually think that the Columbus Theater Guild's putting that on tonight. Want to go see it?"_

_"Do you think there'll be any tickets left?" he asks, looting through a tub of accessories._

_"I think I could work something out. I did a lot of theater stuff as a kid. I know a few of the directors."_

_He turns around, wearing tortoiseshell sunglasses and a champagne-colored scarf. "What do you think? More Katherine or more Audrey?"_

_"More Audrey. Definitely."_

_He nods like this matters and removes the glasses and scarf. We smile at each other like idiots for a second and then we head downstairs to go to evening Warbler practice._

_"You know, you're right," he says as we pass a marble bust of Tennyson. "About understanding each other. I'm usually hostile or shy around new people but I've always felt like myself around you. I've known you a week and you're like my alter ego." He sighs. "Poor Cedes."_

_"She'll get over you."_

_"Hope she doesn't break my windshield again."_

She didn't. She seemed to let Kurt go, which in retrospect, I understand. He probably cried on her shoulder about me after Jeremiah. After Rachel. After all those mistakes that we once so easily laughed at. Looking back, every minute spent not with Kurt seems like a waste. He just felt so…permanent. Even before we were dating. God, it's cliché, but I never thought I would wake up one morning and find him gone.

I was an idiot. Every morning at Dalton, I would get out of bed and think of Kurt. He was my first thought, no exceptions. I don't know what was wrong with me. Some pair of synapses in the back of my over-complacent mind just weren't connecting. I didn't want to hurt him, so my brain didn't let me think of him that way.

There's always more hurt in that kind of relationship.

I start Sebastian's car and pull out of the Dalton lot, memories guiding me down roads that my normal, logical mind wouldn't be able to navigate.

Dalton. It used to sound like candy. I'm not so sure anymore.

_I slide into a seat next to Kurt, who's moodily picking at some roast potatoes._

_"How are you?" I ask. "You look a little homicidal."_

_He smiles weakly. "I didn't get the solo and it's made me wonder if I'll ever really fit in here. My voice is too…gay."_

_I laugh. "Kurt, your voice is divine. It's just a test. No one gets solos on the first try."_

_"No, you were right about not singing_Don't Cry for Me Argentina_. It was too radical. Might as well of worn high heels and purple lipstick."_

_"Okay, two things: one, that's drag, not gay, and two, everyone loved you. We just don't hand out solos on the first try."_

_"Except to you," he mentions. Then he shakes his head. "That's not what's really bothering me. You'll think what's really bothering me is silly."_

_"Well, I'll say it isn't even if it is."_

_He smiles. "It's the food. It's not like home. And I don't mean from a culinary perspective, because my house is Hamburger Helper and Miracle Whip…I just…I miss it. Not Hamburger Helper and Miracle Whip, exactly. I miss this lemon cream pie that Carole would make. She would make it all the time."_

_A grin spreads across my face as the idea flashes through my mind. I tug him up._

_"What are you doing?"_

_"Solving all your problems," I tell him. "Come with me."_

_Kurt's eyes gleam a color that even the thickest dictionary would not have a name for. His nose wrinkles a little bit in excitement._

_"Where are we going?" he asks as we walk out of the dining hall._

_"It's a surprise," I reply._

_We get into my car and I start toward the interstate._

_"Are we breaking curfew?"_

_"Yes," I reply. "But we're both Warblers. Warblers don't get in trouble."_

_"Favoritism was why I had to leave McKinley," he points out._

_"We're just going for a drive, Kurt," I respond. "And ignorance was why you had to leave McKinley. Relax."_

_"It was a little bit of both. They could have expelled him and they chose not to because of who he was at the school."_

_"I think you did the right thing by not telling anyone about the kiss, though. He's probably in a lot of pain."_

_"I was so angry," he sighs, resting his feet on the glove box. "I was so angry that he stole that from me."_

_"It wasn't a real first kiss."_

_"I don't know what to call it. But it was a first." He hesitates. "Have…you…had a real first kiss?"_

_"No," I tell him. I glance at him in the passenger seat. "You look surprised."_

_"I am surprised," he replies, blushing and letting his eyes fall just left of mine. "Very surprised, actually."_

_"I'm waiting for the right person, the right moment. Call me a hopeless romantic…but I want it to mean something."_

_He smiles. "That's not hopelessly romantic. That's normal. That's why I'm having trouble forgiving Karofsky."_

_"You'll forget all about it once you're in a relationship."_

_His eyes linger on me a little too long. I merge onto the highway._

_"Cleveland?" he asks._

_I laugh. "Not Cleveland."_

_"Then where? Are you taking me out to some derelict part of the interstate so you can quietly kill me and throw my body in a reservoir because you know I'm your only true competition?"_

_"Yes. I mean, about the competition. Not about killing you. And if I did kill you, it would be very humane."_

_"How magnanimous," he drawls. "Oh! I forgot to tell you about Ms. Pillsbury. You're not going to believe it."_

_We talk about Vegas marriages until we reach Berkshire. I pull off at Denny's and coax him out of the car._

_"Blaine…?" he asks cautiously._

_"Lemon cream pie," I explain, smiling. "I wanted to get you a piece of lemon cream pie."_

_His mouth falls open slightly, and then he flings his arms around me. I laugh, but then I hug him back and hum against his shoulder._

_"Thank you," he murmurs. "That's the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for me." He sniffles for a minute, and then he says, "Blaine?"_

_"Hmm?"_

_"Can we go inside now?"_

_"What? Yeah!" I let go of him. "Yeah, of course!"_

I pull in front of the building and stare at the familiar yellow and red Denny's sign. I've only been here once, but the memory is clear like an autumn morning. I felt so close to him underneath the quivery lights while we ate that awful slice of pie together. _What is this?_ he had asked, collecting a dollop of whipped cream on his finger. _A plastic byproduct?_

He applied the questionable cream to my nose and called me a lifeguard. I spilled my cup of coffee in a laughing fit and then we were falling all over each other, trying to wipe it up with lots of inadequate, mulchy napkins.

Strange that I felt more like me when I was with him than when I was alone.

I get out of the car, feet crunching into the frost of the parking lot. I let out a long, slow breath and watch it crystallize in the air. That's what made me kiss Sebastian. That subtle validation of life. And despite what it led to, it has a comforting effect this morning. I'm still here, still breathing.

I go inside and sit at the booth nearest to the door. I catch a glimpse of myself in the window – bangs curling over my face, heavy lids and bitten-up lips, five o'clock shadow.

"Good morning." A waitress steps up next to my table, trying a smile. I must look pretty bad. "What can I get you?"

"Um. Just, just co—" I'm interrupted by a small trill outside the window. A bird in the juniper bushes. "Just coffee."

She nods and walks away. I look outside the window again.

It's a blackbird.

_One innocent complaint about my blazer and the choir room is in an uproar._

_"Are you saying you would rather not be a Warbler, Blaine?"_

_"No—"_

_"You mock us!"_

_"I didn't mean—"_

_"How dare you insult the tradition!"_

_"I wasn't—"_

_"Blasphemer!"_

_I give a huge groan and get to my feet. "Warblers, I am merely suggesting that instead of wearing blue ties with red piping," I gesture to myself, "we wear red ties with blue piping for the competition!"_

_"This is a kangaroo court!" shouts Trent._

_I open my mouth to argue, but the door swings forward and Kurt appears. Forget red ties with blue piping. He's all in black._

_All eyes light on him and his mouth tightens like he's about to cry._

_"Kurt, what's wrong?" I ask softly._

_"It's Pavarotti," he explains. "Pavarotti's dead. I suspect a stroke."_

_I stare at him, understanding. That bird was vulnerable and confined like him, but it kept singing. It was his little beacon of hope._

_"Oh my god," I whisper, "I'm so sorry."_

_"I know it's really silly to be upset about a bird," he goes on, not looking at me. "But he, he inspired me, with his optimism and his love of song. He was my friend." His voice picks up. "Now I know that today we need to practice doo-wopping behind Blaine while he sings every solo in the medley of Pink songs – but I'd like to sing a song for Pavarotti today."_

_He pulls a tape out of his jacket and hands it to Luke, who pushes it into the stereo._Blackbird_starts to play. I sit down and focus on the floor, a little overwhelmed. It occurs to me that this is the first time Kurt's not trying to impress or surprise any of us. He broke the rules and spoke out of turn, but it wasn't for attention. It was for him. For Pavarotti._

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night; take these broken wings and learn to fly. All your life…you were only waiting for this moment to arise."

_Kurt seems absorbed by the joy of the song at first, by the hope and anticipation of the lyrics. I'm glad he picked_Blackbird_, because it's about renewal and leaps of faith and new beginnings. He's letting Pavarotti go._

_I don't think Pavarotti would want to be mourned for anyway. Birds spend their whole lives in the sky. When they die, they're just flying a little higher than before._

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night…"

_As he begins the second verse, we join in. I see his eyes flicker a little at the show of support._

"…take these sunken eyes and learn to see. All your life… you were only waiting for this moment to be free."

_I'm still studying the floor. I feel like I should look up, meet his eyes and smile. I love him, after all. But I can't. His voice is too beautiful and I – wait. I what?_

"Blackbird fly…"

_I shiver slightly, like wind is splintering me with glass particles. This can't be happening now._

"…blackbird fly…."

_I'm not in love with him. This isn't how falling in love works. It's immediate. It's reciprocal. I would have noticed this three months ago._

"…into the light of the dark black night."

_But that's it, isn't it? It did happen three months ago. It just took me this long to recognize it._

_I realize I still haven't looked at him. I'm too afraid I'll feel something. I'm too afraid I'll feel nothing. But I have to know. So I glance up, watching him as he walks to the front of the choir room, and there he is. Under the window in the bright March light, tears streaming down his face, I can finally see it. I'm in love with him. Oh my God. I'm in love with him._

"Blackbird fly…blackbird fly…into the light of the dark black night. You were only waiting for this moment to arise…you were only waiting…for this moment to arise."

_I smile softly. It's true._

"Would you like any cream or sugar to go with that?"

I glance up at the waitress, listless. "What?"

"I asked if you would like any cream or sugar to go with your coffee."

"Um. No. Never mind." I pull out my wallet and put three dollars on the table. "Thank you."

I get up and walk back to the car. I lean against it for a while, watching trucks on the interstate, breathing in the tangy smell of exhaust that only seems to be around in winter. I think I would give up my life to go back to that moment, to that realization. If falling in love with Kurt could be my last conscious experience, I think I would be alright with dying.

In five years, I don't want to look back on this and equivocate. I don't want to say that some things just don't work out or that people grow apart. I want to remember the emptiness I feel right now and accept that I did love him, that he did love me...

...the truth is, I don't want to look back on this in five years. I want to be with him in five years.

I get back in the car. The blackbird is still singing in the frosty bushes.

_I'm running on pure adrenaline. I'm exhausted but my body won't let me sleep. I'm dropping things, jumping at small noises, talking too much. I'm also sighing a lot and smiling at the weirdest, emptiest things. I practically shed a tear over an ice cream recipe._

_I guess this is what people mean. _

_It's actually kind of painful. Maybe I'm having a heart attack and I've confused it for falling in love. That sounds like something I would do – because what kind of idiot pushes the greatest thing on earth aside for three months so he comes off as chivalrous?_

_I'm such a complete monkey. And what do I tell Kurt? That I insisted on a duet because I truly am committed to equality among Warblers? No. This is the first time I've ever fought for someone else's success – which wasn't obvious at all, I mean, Wes practically gave me a "can I be your best man?" look – and God I have so much energy I think I could levitate._

"_I'm uh…I'm going for a jog!" I shout at my mother. _

_Mom looks at me from the kitchen, standing at the stove in a light pink muumuu. "It's almost dinner time!"_

"_I'll be back!"_

"_You never go jogging!"_

"_I read it makes you taller!"_

"_Well, change out of those jeans! Think of the chafing!"_

"_No time!"_

_I run out the door and down the street. My hair's un-gelled, I'm in a white t-shirt with a rip down the front and I'm not wearing shoes. I look like I belong on the set of a refugee movie. _

_I sprint along Cleveland Street, cross the bridge and collapse against the railing, completely winded. I grit my teeth against the cramp in my side and look down into the water of Alum Creek. My legs are shaking but the energy's still around. I get the sense that it's not going to go away until I act on it. But acting on this kind of energy could be catastrophic for our friendship. I know he thinks of me as more than a friend, but I made it clear I didn't see him the same way. His life is uncooperative enough without me bursting back into it with a receipt. Can I return my denial, please? What about an exchange? A store credit? One kiss?_

_I think it's too much to ask for, even if he does love me. _

_I run my hand through my hair and shiver, on an emotional high wire. I have to do something. That much is clear. But I have to be sure of my footing…and with this kind of this thing…is there really any way to be sure?_

_I don't think so. I'm going to have to jump. _

_And when I do jump, I can't be ambiguous. That would hurt him even more. I have to tell him I love him without actually saying those words. Me and declarations of love don't get along so well, as the Gap manager knows. I have to take my lit teachers advice and show instead of tell. I have to get it across to him through gestures and body language…_

…_can I send a card, instead? (What do you know!? I'm in love with you! I'll be moving to Zimbabwe now!)_

_No. I have to face him tomorrow. I should kiss him. I should walk up to him and kiss him. But he'll want a reason. Kurt's not the type of person who equates kissing with dating…and I'm not either…but it would be so much easier. A kiss is simple. Words aren't. But Kurt will want words. He'll probably want an "I love you." _

_So I'll give him that, just not using those words. Those words cause too many problems. But what's a good substitute? What's the best way to say it? Because it's more than I love you. It always has been._

_I start to jog slowly back towards my house and it begins to rain. Birds hop out of the bushes and peck at the cracks in the pavement. Birds. I realized I loved him during Blackbird. I could tell him that. I could tell him that I had that…moment. I could describe what he makes me feel like. I could explain that the duet was just an excuse to spend more time with him. That all sounds okay. I think that would be adequately romantic. And then I could kiss him and ask him to be my boyfriend. _

_And I know the perfect song._

_I shove the front door open and fall through it._

"_You're soaking wet! What happened?"_

"_It's raining!"_

"_Did you fall in the aqueduct again, Blaine?"_

"_I said it's raining!"_

_I shake off and march up the stairs, put on a sweatshirt and pajama pants, and snuggle under the covers of my bed. Mom's voice echoes up the stairs. _

"_Do you want some corn?"_

_I groan. "No!"_

"_Are you sure? It's from Albertson's!"_

"_I'm fine, Mom!"_

"_You never eat, Blaine! You're wasting away! Do you remember what happened to Aunt Melba? She died!"_

"_I'm not anorexic – I'm conscientious! I have a regimen!"_

"_What are you? An actor?"_

_I put my headphones in and mom's voice vanishes. Then I wrap my arm around a pillow, pretend it's Kurt, and fall asleep. When I wake up, I'm nearly late for school. So much for my apparent energy._

_I run out the door in a state of disarray similar to the one I was in last night, but when I reach Dalton, I actually feel resolved. I know what I'm going to say. I'm still nervous – more nervous than I've ever been – but when I catch his eye in Warbler Practice, I'm able to smile normally. He still seems gloomy over Pavarotti, but at least he smiles back._

_For a while, I think I've missed my chance. It's almost time to go home and I haven't seen him in hours. But then I spot him, alone in the Dalton café, immersed in a project involving a tiny, sparkling box._

_I take a deep, lasting breath and go through the door._

"_What's that?" I ask._

"_I'm decorating Pavarotti's casket."_

_Of course. Kurt always pulls focus._

"_Well, finish up," I tell him. "I think I found the perfect song for our duet. I think we should practice."_

_He leans forward, hands crossed on his knee. "Do tell."_

_I hesitate. "I Will. By the Beatles."_

_His eyebrows rise a little in apprehension, but he just says, "I'm impressed. You're usually so Top 40."_

"_Well I just…wanted something a little more emotional."_

_I sit down next to him. He clears his throat when I don't speak._

"_Why did you pick me to sing that song with?" he asks softly._

_The words that seemed so jumbled in my head last night don't seem that way now. Looking into his eyes, it all makes sense. _

_I take a breath and close my eyes before speaking._

"_Kurt, there is a moment when you say to yourself 'Oh, there you are. I've been looking for you forever.'" I take his hand and he seems to share the shock that rings through my bones. "Watching you do _Blackbird_ this week…that was a moment for me…about you…"_

_The very corner of his mouth quivers, the beginning of a smile._

"…_you move me, Kurt." _

_His eyes widen, glinting like sunlight on water. It's enough. That's the "I love you" he wanted._

"…_and this duet," I go on quietly, "would just be an excuse to spend more time with you."_

_He breathes out, calm but illuminated, and I lean close. His eyes dilate slightly in realization just as our lips meet, and for a moment, there is nothing but the fluid sound of our heartbeats, the warmth of his mouth, the weeks of unsaid words, tumbling letter by letter in silent understanding. He puts his hand on the side of my face, keeping me close, and his lips part slightly. Underneath the chocolate from his mocha, he's sweet and crisp like an apple…distinctive and pristine without being pure, like the smoky air on a fall morning or the scent of earth on the roots of a plant. He tastes like…Kurt._

_Just when my body starts to literally shake, reality breaks through and I pull back. I just kissed Kurt. God. I just kissed Kurt. I shift back into my seat, nothing but raspy breaths. Kurt's expression is suspended in surprise and something that might be…could be…joy. _

_I cover my face, completely overcome, laughing at myself. _

"_We should practice," I say finally._

_Kurt smiles, quivering like a candle flame, and replies, "I thought we were."_

_And then we're kissing again, deprived and insistent and almost humming in pleasure. I want more of everything. His mouth, his fingertips. He's like cream, smooth and soft and quickening. I want to fall into him and nearly drown, be plucked out just in time…fall in…be plucked out. I want to be kept on this brink until my lungs give out and have to be remade. This is everything._

_He pulls away and we both struggle for air._

"_I thought…" he whispers, "…I thought you…"_

"_I was wrong. I was stupid. It was always you."_

_We kiss again. _

"_That song," he goes on, his fingers climbing higher on my tie. "That song is so unconditional."_

"_I know. That's why I picked it."_

_Another kiss, a deeper one. He makes a soft, startled noise and the little blood left in my brain disappears. _

"_Will you be my boyfriend?" I gasp out._

_He pulls back, speechless, and nods. Then he pulls me over to one of the couches and we kiss until our lips are pulsing and tingling. His eyes, iridescent, have become molten in the last few minutes. _

_I kiss his jaw lightly and he smiles, and then I nuzzle my face into his neck and he wraps an arm around me. This feels good too, but even more needed, even more missed. We stay like this for a while, and then he whispers, "I have a long drive."_

"_I'll drive you. I don't mind."_

"_How selfless," he says, giggling._

_I kiss him again because his giggle is intoxicating, and then I pull him up. He packs Pavarotti's casket into his bag and we start down the hallway._

"_Hey," he says, almost accusatorily. _

"_What?" I ask, eyes widening in alarm._

"_Take my hand, Silly."_

I pull up alongside McKinley and stare at the dull winter paint on the stadium. Unoccupied, it looks sterile and sinister, nothing like the place Kurt and I knew. But maybe everything will look that way from now on. Maybe Kurt was my light.

We only had a little time together at Dalton before he decided to go back to McKinley, and I was overwhelmed when he said he was leaving. Those few weeks had been the best of my life – staring at each other in class like we were the only two people there, having coffee and pretending to be strangers, sneaking out at three in the morning to make out in the library (getting caught by a blushing, tight-lipped Mrs. Fitch,) practicing scales, lying out under the oak trees as the weather warmed up…

I knew I couldn't handle another year at Dalton without him, so I showed up at McKinley on the first day of school and he flung his arms around me. I knew he loved me, but I had no idea what that small show of dedication really meant to him. I think it was the first time he trusted me, the first time he truly believed I loved him back.

Our relationship felt more serious after that. We were fluent with each other, completely whole in each other. And having sex felt so instinctive and nourishing. Being with Kurt left me with all these miniature details, like the slight wrinkle of his nose or the distorted reflection in the mirror when I went to wrap my arms around him. He was mine and I was his, and it made sense in a way that nothing else in my life ever had…it felt intended by the universe.

_Sebastian's hand twitches and I jump in front of Kurt just in time. Bright red slushy splatters my face. _

_For a fraction of a second, all I feel is cold. Then I'm on the ground, hands pressed to my face, body twisted. Retreating footsteps echo in the parking garage. My left eye feels like someone took a knife across its surface._

_Kurt kneels next to me._

"_Blaine?" he asks, voice edging into panic despite the steadiness of his hands. "Blaine, are you okay?"_

_I don't say anything. I can't. I just roll my face closer to the ground._

"_It's okay," he says. "It's going to be okay. I'm going to drive you to the hospital."_

_I shake my head and he helps me sit up. My vision slowly resolves around him. He's pale and his eyes are as glossy as the inside of a seashell. _

_He gently covers my hand with his and removes it from my eye. His mouth slides slightly open and I look around at the others. They all grimace._

"_What?" I yelp._

"_You're bleeding," Kurt says. "Your eye."_

"_My actual eye?"_

"_The whole thing's red. There's no pupil or color or anything." He rubs his thumb along my temple. "I want to take you to a hospital, B."_

_I'm starting to feel sick. The pain's getting worse – thick and stinging like a bite. But I shake my head. "I don't need to go to the hospital."_

_Kurt movies his thumb along my face again, and then lifts me to my feet and wraps an arm around me. He's unexpectedly composed when things go wrong. His own needs evaporate and he gives off so much warmth and love that it's hard to be afraid of anything. It seems impossible that he's the same crying boy in the coffee shop._

"_Everything's going to be okay," he says, leading me towards his car, the New Directions following along behind us. "Can you see anything?"_

_I try to open my left eye. My abdomen tightens at the pain and I let it slip shut again._

"_I don't know," I admit. "It really…it really hurts."_

_He helps me into his car and waves the others off. He pulls off his jacket, pours water over it from a canteen, and hands it to me. I stare at him._

"_Isn't that Marc Jacobs?"_

_He smiles and slides into the driver's seat. "You need something cold on your eye."_

"_But it's the Spring 2012—"_

"_Blaine, I love you more than I love Marc Jacobs. Put that on your eye."_

_I lean my head back and press the jacket to my eye. I wince and feel a bead of liquid course down my face. It's too thick and sticky, so I catch it on my finger and glance at it. Blood. My heart speeds up a little._

"_Kurt," I mumble. "Kurt, I don't think I'm going to be able to see out of this eye again."_

_He looks over at me quickly, turning onto the freeway. "You're going to be fine. Nothing bad can happen to you if I'm there."_

"_That's –" a puff of breath escapes my lips as the stinging returns, "—that's really romantic…but…"_

"_No," he says adamantly, tapping his palm on the steering wheel. "You're going to be fine. Don't argue."_

"_Well, distract me, at least."_

"_Distract you?"_

"_Put your hand on my leg or something."_

_He rolls his eyes, but takes a hand off the wheel and runs his thumb along my knee._

_I turn my head towards him and grin wolfishly. "I love you."_

"_I love you, too. Now shush."_

_We drive in silence for a while. I alternate between cringing against the pain and focusing on the light pressure of his hand, but even his touch can only dull the pain so much. I'm curled into a tight ball by the time we reach the emergency room and he practically carries me inside. He settles me into a chair and then lobbies the nurses for attention._

"_You're not turning me away without looking at his eye! It looks like a maraschino cherry!"_

_Eventually, a heavy-lidded, dark-lipped nurse kneels in front of me. _

"_Oh," she says blandly, and then she walks away._

_Kurt bites his lip, runs his hand through his hair and swears – something that would be almost unbearably attractive under normal circumstances – and sits down next to me._

"_She better be getting a doctor."_

"_I'm sure she is."_

"_She isn't," he says darkly. "She's probably going for a Snickers bar out of the vending machine."_

"_I'm sure we'll see someone soon."_

"_I don't like this place," he goes on. "I really don't like this place."_

_We wait about fifteen minutes before a middle-aged, clipboard-bearing doctor appears in one of the side doors. The nurse leads us over to him and he starts down the hallway, nodding at me to follow him. After a minute, he turns and looks at Kurt._

"_You aren't allowed back here," he nips. "Why didn't you stay at the door?"_

"_I want to be with him," Kurt replies._

"_Are you family?"_

"_No. Not exactly."_

"_Then you'll have to wait in one of our visitor's waiting rooms."_

"_No. I'm going with him."_

"_Who are you exactly?" asks the doctor, looking him up and down._

"_I'm his boyfriend."_

_The doctor's face inches inward like a circling drain. "In that case, you'll most certainly have to wait outside." _

_Kurt glares fiercely at the doctor, but turns around after giving my arm a squeeze. I keep walking, shrinking with each step. I've never been in a hospital, especially not under the control of a hostile doctor. _

_Just as I think my lungs might explode with apprehension, Kurt's voice rings through the hall. We turn around as he rushes back towards us._

"_Don't you dare treat him any differently!" he shouts at the doctor. "He's just as good as everyone else!"_

_The doctor stares at Kurt, clearly alarmed._

"_I love him and you'll be sorry if you hurt him! I will sue you for discrimination if it takes the rest of my life! I would treat your wife with respect. You should treat my boyfriend with the same respect!" _

_He turns to me. I swallow hard and give him a trembling smile. _

"_I love you, B," he says. "It'll be okay."_

_I nod and just manage to say, "I know" before the urge to cry overwhelms me. _

_When I finally get out of the exam room – eye wrapped up, clutching a prescription – it's almost one in the morning. I expect Kurt to have gone home, but instead, he's awake in the waiting room, holding two cups of hot chocolate, sitting next to a bouquet of roses._

_He springs up when he sees me. "What happened? What is it?"_

"_It's a…corneal abrasion…and I need surgery."_

_His mouth falls._

"_It's okay," I say quickly. "They said I'll be able to see just as well as before."_

"_Oh, thank God," he mutters. "Does it still hurt?"_

"_No. They gave me something for it."_

_He grins a tiny, sideways grin. "Blaine on medication? I don't know about that." Then he reaches behind him for the roses. "I thought you might like these after what happened with the doctor."_

_I smile and bring them close to me. "I love them. I love you. Really. That was…"_

"_It wasn't much."_

"_No. Don't minimize it. That meant more to me than I can express."_

_He wraps his arms around me. "You're staying with me tonight, okay?"_

_I nod and breathe in his reassuring scent, more in love than I knew I could be. He's just a human. Just skin and bones like me. How can I need skin and bones so much? How can I need a hand, a kiss, more than I need food and water? _

_I don't know, but I do…and I think I always will. _

I stare listlessly at the hospital. The sun is hidden behind it and cornfields dip in the wind in the distance. It seems so out of place. I seem so out of place.

Kurt is the only person in the world who could have defended me like that, and I lost him. He was the only unconditional thing in my life…and he's gone.

I know I shouldn't – I _know_ – but I can't help myself. I pull my phone out and dial Kurt's number. It rings for a long time, until finally, I reach his voicemail.

"Hello. You have reached Kurt Hummel. If you're calling regarding , please try reaching the main office at 764-7878. If you're calling because you're my over-attentive boyfriend, then _yes, Sweetheart, I'm fine and I love you too_. Otherwise, leave me a message and I will get back to you as soon as I can."

My breath hitches in my throat. His voice. His bright, sparkling voice, preserved on his phone from when we were together. I swallow and click the end button. Then I dial over and over, until I can mouth every word. _Yes, Sweetheart, I'm fine._

I'm not fine.

Eventually, I leave a stumbling message, and then I pull out of the hospital lot and drive back to Sebastian's house.

It's almost night time again.

* * *

**I wanted to say...that I do not ship Seblaine nor do I think this chapter includes any Seblaine. The kiss was a reaction - not a genuine thing - so I don't count it. Sorry if it gave you indigestion! It had to be done!**

**And yes…I changed the song from ****_Candles _****to ****_I Will_****. Which reminds me…does anyone else think it's a good sign the first two episodes of S5 are Beatles Tribute episodes? Because two of Kurt's most important songs were Beatles songs…I think it points to a Klaine engagement! Even a wedding! If they do a wedding I am literally going to fly into a million pieces and all my roommates will request a new room!**

**BTW – Should I give Seb a boyfriend? Kind of thinking of a sweet farmers market kind of guy named Ben…or maybe a guy who works at Cold Stone and gives him free ice cream…? He needs to become less of a third wheel. ;D**

**Thank you for all the support! : )**


	13. I'm Fine, Sweetheart

**UPDATE 9/27**

**He said yes. That is all. ^_^**

* * *

**Hello faithful readers! Sorry about the delay. I had to move. About 3400 miles to be exact. So that took some time. I'm in college now and it's indescribably perfect!**

**Here's the newest chapter. Spoiler alert – it has a happy ending. Finally.**

* * *

"_Hi Kurt. I….I know you didn't want me to call…I know I probably don't have a right to call…but I'm sitting outside the hospital in Lima right now, thinking about the time I got slushied…and how you brought me hot chocolate and roses. Remember that? And the way you yelled at the doctor? Well, of course you remember it…I just…I don't know what I thought. I just can't stop thinking about it….and you're probably on your plane and you're probably not thinking about anything but what I did to you and I…I shouldn't have told you that you did anything wrong. It was hard for me to hear you say what you said…but what I did was so much worse and I can't do anything but tell you I'm sorry – more sorry than I've ever been for anything. I'm sorry. So, so sorry. And I know it's too much to ask…but I want to show you that you can trust me again. I'm going to grow up. I'm going to be better than this, Kurt. Stronger than this. I was weak and stupid and immature and I just...I love you…and I know that doesn't give me a right to you…but if I lose you…Kurt…you're all I think about…I'll have nothing if I lose you. And maybe it was stupid of me to leave Lima…but I did it for you…and maybe it was stupid to act like I was going to propose but…it's because you're…you're everything to me and this probably sounds like a lot of crap…but, God, Kurt…this can't…this can't just be over. I actually…I…I think of you as my husband. I may not have known you a whole lifetime…but it feels like I have…and I want to be with you no matter what. And clearly I'm not ready for a commitment like that…but I want a commitment like that. I'll do anything for you to trust me again. And it's your choice…but maybe if you think about what we've been through…maybe you could at least call me and we could talk about it and you could give me a second chance. So…anyway…I love you. I hope you're okay. And if you…if you never talk to me again…I get it. I do. I hope you get into NYADA and get on Broadway and get everything you've been waiting for because you deserve it more than anyone I've ever known. I'll try…try reaching you later."_

I close my phone and sit down on my bed, wrinkling the sheets in my hand. I'm crying, but it's not because of the _I'm sorries_…not from the _I love yous_. I'm crying because he still wants me to succeed. He's still standing by, telling me if I have too many candles on stage.

I slump against the pillow and stare at the condensation on the window. Rachel comes in to check on me. She covers me with a blanket, brings me tea that I don't drink and puts on quiet music. I don't move the entire time. Around midnight, she silently lies down next to me, eyes fixed on the back of my head.

"It's going to be okay."

"People like to say that."

"I mean it. I've seen you get through worse than this."

"There is nothing worse than this."

* * *

"I don't want to meet your parents right now, Sebastian."

Sebastian and I are sitting in his living room, dispassionately sharing a pitcher of coffee. It's late at night and Kurt's voice is still ringing through my head. _I'm fine, Sweetheart_. My stomach crunches and I tilt my coffee away so I don't have to smell it.

"I don't want them to think I'm your…"

"You might want them to like you, you might think they should like you, but they're not going to. You'll have to deal with that if you want to stay here."

"Maybe I could stay with Artie or something."

He shakes his head. "As much as any of the New Directions liked you, they liked Kurt more. He was there first and they're going to back him."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that if any of the New Directions find out you cheated on Kurt, they will tie you down, slowly peel your skin off your body, marinate you in a delightful vinaigrette, and eat you alive."

"Oh."

"Oh is right." He pauses and we hear a garage door open. "Okay. Let's go."

We walk upstairs just in time to see Mr. and Mrs. Smythe come through the door. Mrs. Smythe takes off her coat – knee-length white fur – and turns around abruptly when Sebastian clears his throat. She has a cold, stark kind of beauty that's very unsettling – heavy eyes above a thin, upturned nose. Mr. Smythe, unlike his wife, doesn't wear his personality. His face is decisively warm…though there is something in his eyes that I recognize…something I don't trust.

"Mom, Dad," Sebastian says in a loud, careful voice. "I'd like you to meet someone."

Mr. Smythe narrows his eyes and Mrs. Smythe glances nervously at me.

"This is Blaine," Sebastian goes on. "He's a friend of mine and he needs a place to stay."

"How long will he be here?" Mr. Smythe asks.

"About a week," Sebastian replies. "Until Thanksgiving if that's okay."

Mr. Smythe nods curtly and Mrs. Smythe folds her arms.

"Well," she says in an airy, removed voice. "How about you sit down with us for some tea, Blaine?"

I give a hesitant nod.

"Call me Blythe," she continues.

She almost shakes my hand, but pulls back at the last second and walks towards the kitchen. I get an uncanny sense that she's about to turn around, brandish a wand, and transfigure me into a goat, but she just pats a barstool and shoves an empty mug into my hands.

"What kind of tea would you like?"

"Black's fine."

"Cream and sugar?"

I spend thirty excruciating minutes talking to Mr. and Mrs. Smythe. By the time the conversation is over, Sebastian has gone to bed and I'm left alone in the dark, oversized mansion. I try to find my way downstairs again, but I end up in a private library instead. Awake and intrigued by the solitary house, I decide to look around.

I follow a staircase up along the bookshelves and into a small study with an espresso bar and a microphone. Sebastian must spend a lot of time here. There's paperwork and sheet music with his handwriting scrawled all over it…articles about lacrosse tournaments…jazz CDs…Dalton yearbooks. There's also a picture of a young man with curly brown hair and glasses. He's grinning, hoisting an oversized carrot up for the camera. The name _Ben_ is written on the frame.

I set the picture down and walk through another door, this time into a storage room. I'm just about to leave when I notice a something hiding under a torn white sheet. I lift the sheet away, cough from the dust, and run my hand over the newly exposed wood of an old piano.

I grin. I sit down in front of the piano and play chords lightly until I'm sure it isn't out of tune. Then I get up and open a few windows, find a metal clip-on lamp and attach it to the music desk. In the light, I can see that all of the keys are covered in thick, gray-green dust. I brush them off with the sheet and play a couple familiar songs. My fingers drift into the tune of _The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face_ and I stop abruptly, staring at the black keys. Maybe if I played the right song for Kurt…maybe if I sang the right words at the right time…maybe he would forgive me and we could go back to the way things were.

I mostly miss little things. It's those things that define a relationship, more than any broad experiences do. We all love our partner's eyes; we all love their touch; we all love to hear _I love you_. But it's the distinctive things that I miss the most. Watching him stretch before bed, hearing the chime of his keys against the door, his daily complaint about the water pressure, the way he'd melt into my arms in the morning while we waited for the coffee to percolate. I don't know where to turn or what to say, but I know I won't last without him. I don't want a warm body. I want Kurt. I want my boyfriend back. I want our history back. I just wish I had another way to tell him what he means to me. The words never seem right in my mind and they don't seem right coming out of my mouth.

I normally don't write songs. My thoughts come in too fast, too jumbled. But sometimes, late at night when I'm exhausted by grief, feelings funnel into notes and words. I start to play something. It starts to sound right.

"That sounds good. Did you write it?"

I spin on the seat and see Sebastian standing in the doorway, wearing plaid pajamas and nursing a huge mug of something. My startled heartbeat gradually slows and I turn back to the piano.

"Well?" he presses.

"Yes, I wrote it," I reply, turning around again. "Who's Ben, by the way?"

His eyes glint. "Did you look through my stuff?"

"No. I just saw the picture."

He takes a delaying sip from his mug. "He's a guy."

"And you have a picture because…?"

"He works at Cold Stone."

"You have a picture because he works at Cold Stone?"

"No," he snarls. "I have a picture because I'm I love with him."

I raise my eyebrows, beaming helplessly. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Why didn't you stay with him instead of with me and Kurt? When your parents kicked you out?"

"Because I haven't told him anything."

"Well, does he like you?"

"He always pays for my ice cream."

"That's a really good sign." I grin. "What's with the carrot?"

"Oh, he's a vegan. He has to work at Cold Stone for money, but he mans the farmers market too, goes kayaking…"

"He doesn't sound like you at all."

"Yeah, I don't even know if he's gay."

"He wouldn't be paying for your ice cream if he wasn't gay."

"That's true. But I don't know how to say something to him. How did you say it to Kurt?"

"I don't know if we're the best example."

"Oh, Jesus. You're more in love – yes, still – than anyone else I've ever met. Spill."

"I…blurted out _I love you_ in the Lima Bean last year."

"No, idiot. I mean the first time you ever said anything like that to him."

"Well, after his canary died—"

"Just tell me what you actually _said_."

"So you can copy me? No. It has to be personal."

He looks down and traces the rim of his cup with his index finger, mouth twitching in hesitation. "I've never…had a real relationship. And I don't know how to tell him that I...I'm HIV positive or that I've slept with dozens of people…but I really…its like that song in Evita. You'd be good for me, I'd be good for you?"

I nod. He shifts into an office chair.

"I don't know how to convince him that he's not a hookup."

"Tell him he matters to you."

"I wouldn't even feel comfortable kissing him without telling him everything and everything…it's a lot. Maybe you think of me as some slutty cheerleader, but it's...it's pretty bad. It's pretty smutty." He looks between his knees at the floor. "_I_ don't even know how to look at someone as a partner. My body kicks in and suddenly everything is just a goal and I know I'll screw things up because of that. I don't trust myself. Not at all."

"Just tell him that. Use those words. He'll understand."

"Would you understand? Would you even date someone with AIDS?"

"Yeah, of course."

"It's not that simple. Believe me, it isn't." He runs his hand through his hair in frustration. "Maybe you could stop by Cold Stone tomorrow and tell me what you think."

"Of him?"

"No, of us. As a couple."

I nod cautiously. I'm scared of getting reinvolved in Ohio, of starting new projects, meeting new people. I'm also terrified of moving back to New York, as much as I want to see the leaves falling on Bleaker Street.

"I'll go."

* * *

I try to get dressed for work, but I just end up running my hands over the clothes in my closet, never pulling anything out, never putting anything on. I've knotted and unknotted an olive green tie in my hands about six times before I realize I'm late for work. I look down and start to cry.

Sebastian_. _He's curled up with Sebastian.

A sob hitches in my throat and I sink down in my closet. Broken images flash in my mind like rain drops.

His hands, his beautiful, talented hands that were mineto hold and kiss. His coppery chocolate eyes that were only supposed to widen at my touch. His voice that, until yesterday, had only ever been soft and vulnerable for me.

I can't be with him anymore. I simply can't. He was the first person I trusted, and even though he deserves a second chance like everyone else, I'm too hurt to give him one. He got stuck with a role no one could fill. Because it's Blaine…I want nothing more than to forgive him…but because it's Blaine….I'm never going to be able to.

I go to work eventually. I stare at my stack of business cards and think about how much time I spent debating the color of the text. An hour, two maybe, and for what? I'm sitting in a New York office with a job no one my age ever gets and I'm sitting here for other people. This isn't for me anymore. I lost too much to even enjoy the city. Rachel tries. She told me this Thanksgiving will be the best ever. But how? It might be shallow. It might be incredibly narrow-minded. But without Blaine here, I feel like the value of everything went down, even things completely unrelated to him.

My job, the apartment…things I loved…the feeling is gone.

I get up and look out over the city. I'm a silhouette to anyone behind me.

I don't know what to do. I don't even know what I want. People say it's freeing, that you can want anything after losing everything. But all I see are doors closing, one by one, before I can reach them. The future's unsure. The past is excruciating. I'm freefalling.

My hand connects with the window latch. I pop it open and press it out. Cold air rushes in. I bitterly hate time. It used to be comforting. _There's_ _always time…it keeps going…you keep going_. The problem is, I don't want to keep going. I want time – and me – to have stopped when I was little, before any of this had a chance of happening, when love was uncomplicated.

That's not to say that complicated love isn't worth more than no love at all, but God it's harder, and there's no real equivalent to uncomplicated love. That dies with innocence. People I thought I would love purely the rest of my life…as I got older, I began to see the cracks.

I want to glue everything in place because if one tiny thing shifts, I'll lose my mind. I know I need to take action, but I'm too afraid to. I find myself standing in the kitchen or waiting on a train platform, staring at the walls like they have something to tell me. I'm waiting for divine instruction. It doesn't ever come. I know it won't ever come. I don't believe God interacts with people on earth. Maybe I don't believe in God at all. And it's a kind of alone that is different from every other kind, because I'm alone in myself. I can't find who I once was, I can't find who I am, and I can't find who I will be. Every little split decision…I can't pick one or the other…I can't pick both… picking neither leaves me drugged with immobility. I'm utterly lost.

I guess I'll let the world whisk me around for a while, like wind carrying a help wanted section. Maybe I'll turn up in a drain one day and be someone's golden ticket. That's the most I can hope for.

I get up and make myself tea. As I'm opening a sugar-free sweetener packet, it strikes me that I picked _that_ packet, not the creamer, not the sugar. I picked that one. The little pink one. I picked it up, slapped it against my palm so all the tiny crystals would consolidate in the bottom, tore it open and poured it in my tea. I chose that packet. Me. I chose something.

* * *

Sebastian isn't back yet, though I dropped him off at Cold Stone at around four o'clock. I'm not sure if this is good or bad. I only sat with him a few minutes, eating cake batter ice cream and thinking about the hair-raising lecture I would have gotten from Kurt for ordering _cake batter ice cream_, when Ben came over and basically took my chair from me. I left quickly, cake batter ice cream in hand, and wandered around Westerville for a while. Then I went home and trekked to the upstairs piano to work on my song for Kurt. It's close to midnight now and I'm nearly done.

The door opens suddenly and Sebastian peeks his head in, clearly holding back a ball of energy.

"There you are. Hey."

"I take it things went …?"

"Well, he got fired."

"What? Why?"

"Because his boss didn't like that he took the day off without permission. We went to the zoo and got dinner and then we went dancing and then we jumped off the dam into the reservoir and then we had to go get hot chocolate because it was fucking cold and then his car wouldn't start so we took a bus to his house and then we talked for a while and now I'm here."

"Sounds…"

"It was. I'm going to bed now."

I raise my eyebrows and he responds with a manic grin before backing out the door. I shake my head and look back at the piano keys, smiling a little.

* * *

"_Clamshell, Roman Plaster, _and _Chocolate Froth _all look the same to me, Kurt," Rachel complains, holding up three paint samples. "Why are we here, again?"

"I told you. We're painting the apartment. And those are very distinct colors."

"They're identical."

"They are not! Go find me the one called…" I look down at my paint catalogue "…_Moonstruck._"

She makes a face and taps off in the direction of the white and cream colored paint. I bite my lip and stare intently at the two samples in my hand – _Tuscan Beige _and_ Nesting Dove. _The names of the colors are annoying and the florescent lights are giving me a headache, but I don't mind. All these colors and I can _choose_. I can actually choose one of a thousand colors. I can buy it, dip a paintbrush in it, cover my walls with it.

"Here's _Moonstruck_," Rachel snips, shoving the card into my hand. "We've been here for hours, Kurt."

"Just hang on," I say distractedly. I hold up _Macadamia _to compare it with _Moonstruck_. "Okay. We can go."

"Fantastic." She grabs my arm and carts me roughly towards the exit. Then she stops. "Aren't you going to buy something?"

"No. I have to go organize the paint samples first – and I want to stop by work."

"You want to _stop by_ work? It's forty five minutes out of the way!"

"Well, I'm going. I have to get some paperwork."

"Kurt, listen to me," she say suddenly, stopping me in the entrance so the sliding door sticks open. "I know how hard breakups are. I do. I thought my relationship was permanent too. But you're…you're painting the apartment and going to work at midnight and filling up every tiny minute so you don't have to face what happened. I'm worried about you."

"I don't need you to worry about me," I say curtly, and walk into the parking lot without her. She calls my name, but I've already started towards the subway station. By the time I get to work, everyone has left. I collect the paperwork I had in mind and shut off the coffee machine, which is burbling, burning.

* * *

"How do you make cranberry sauce?" asks Sebastian, disdainfully allowing cranberries fall through his fingers and back into the bag.

"Sugar and pectin," answers Ben.

We're in Sebastian's kitchen, trying to cook Thanksgiving dinner.

"But how do you get it all transparent and shiny?" Sebastian presses.

Ben laughs. "By cooking it? C'mon, haven't you ever made cranberry sauce before? No tedious grandmother ever hovered over you and made you stir?"

"My grandmother is tedious, but no."

They exchange a swift smile and then focus intently on the bowl of sugar-coated cranberries, sitting on the counter between them. There is a beat of hesitation, and then Ben picks up a cranberry and presses it silently into Sebastian's hand. They meet eyes once more, Sebastian squeezes the cranberry slightly, and then he plunks it into the saucepan.

My eyes linger on them a little too long. I've just looked away when the door opens and Sebastian's father comes in. He falters at the sight of Ben, and then he tucks his chin against his chest and exits the kitchen without a word. The tangible warmth between Sebastian and Ben evaporates.

"It'll be all right," Ben says.

"No, it won't," Sebastian replies matter-of-factly.

He sets down his dish cloth and attempts to leaves the room. Ben chases after him and he turns around, pushing Ben backwards. He claps the door shut behind him, but Ben opens it once again and grabs him through it.

"Fucking let go!"

"You can't run away—"

"Let go of me!"

"You need to—"

Sebastian suddenly falls into Ben's arms, holding onto him fiercely. Ben, unsurprised, rubs his back and whispers something to him. The pot of cranberries begins to boil, but I don't bother to stir it. I'm watching what I lost.

I spend the rest of the day composing Kurt's song. It's too hard to be in the kitchen, watching Ben and Sebastian lean on each other. I know how horrible Sebastian's parents are. I have a constant pit in my stomach about it. Seeing someone you care about so close to breakdown so much of the time…it's rough. But being in the same position and not having someone who understands is rougher. It's leaching the life right out of me. I feel drugged. I feel helpless. It's all I can do to string a few verses together and hope they make a difference.

I stay up late once again, into the early hours of Thanksgiving. Trees are thrashing against the sides of the house, whiskbrooms in deep blackness. It's hard to say where I am.

I call Kurt. He doesn't answer. I leave the song on his voicemail. More and more, I think trying is useless.

I gather up my sheet music and notes and leave the small dusty space. I shut the door tightly behind me and walk along the high, exposed hallway that looks down on the living room. I'm almost to the end when I hear something. I turn and scan the dark living room, eyes pulsing between couches and lamps until I notice a man – no, two men – close together and intent on removing each other's clothing. I roll my eyes and start to walk again, but reality catches up in my brain. That wasn't Sebastian and Ben.

My heartbeat stutters. I force myself to look again and, snake eyes recognizable even in the dark, Mr. Smythe stares back.

I sprint out of the hallway and end up in Sebastian's private living room. He and Ben are asleep on the couch together, half empty popcorn bowls tilted on the slopes of their bodies. I look around wildly, but my gaze seems to drawn only to Sebastian's peaceful face.

Oh God.

* * *

I spend three hours organizing paint samples by color, pinning them up to the walls, repinning when they don't quite make sense. I'm up all night, drinking coffee and cocoa, filled with strange adrenaline and purpose. I don't let myself consider what I'm working towards, which must mean it's meaningless, whatever it is.

Around three in the morning, I stand up too quickly and have to steady myself. My throat twitches in queasiness. I look at the empty coffee pot and the scattered paint samples on the floor, then lunge into the kitchen and greedily drink some water. I slide down on the rug and look around the kitchen, suddenly listless and confused.

The phone rings. It let the ringing exhaust itself and listen for the quiet, upbeat chime that signals a new voicemail. It takes almost three minutes, and in this three minutes, I become so intrigued that I've typed in my password before I can mentally process what I'm doing – thank God, because I can't mentally process decisions, even small ones. I wait to hear his voice, but instead, I hear a piano. Then he starts to sing.

_Is there another way to say I'm sorry?_

_Are there a few words that I should change?_

_I know that I hurt you too much…_

…_to ever hear you say it's okay._

_But I'm sorry anyway._

_Is there another way to say I don't know…_

…_why I did what I did?_

_I know that I need you too much…_

…_to ever see what you meant._

_But I'm sorry anyway._

_And where are we, Love?_

_Where are we now?_

_I've never been so lost before._

_And what have I done?_

_Are you gone?_

_Can you even hear this song?_

_Is there another way to say I miss you?_

_There's no one else I could love._

_I know that you'll find someone better…_

…_and I'm the only cause._

_But I'm sorry anyway. _

_Is there another way to make this softer?_

_Is there anyone I could call?_

_I know you'd never ask me for help…_

…_but I'll be here all night long._

_I'm sorry, anyway._

_And where are you love?_

_Where are you now?_

_I miss your eyes, I miss your smile._

_And what do you do when you're alone?_

_Me, I stare at the phone._

_Is there another way to say I'm sorry?_

_Are there a few words that I should change?_

_I don't expect to be forgiven._

_But I'm sorry anyway._

The piano dies softly. I'm asked if I would like to save or delete the message. I just close the phone, open-mouthed.

* * *

There are only so many things you can make the crack in your ceiling look like. You can pretend it's a canyon. You can see it as a line on a topographical map. Maybe it's a lightening bolt, or a root, or a river. But after awhile it's just a crack. It's plaster and paint and bits of pink insulation. It's commonplace, a bad distraction.

It's Thanksgiving and I haven't told Sebastian anything. I don't know how. I know I'm not his guardian. I know he wouldn't want to be protected. I know that pretending I didn't see anything is hypocritical and probably immoral. But it's hard to fathom. If I was on the receiving end of that kind of news…I'm not sure what I would do…I'm not sure what I wouldn't do.

The wind has died down, but only slightly. The scent of pumpkin and rosemary pervades the house. I listen to Ben and Sebastian banter back and forth about everything and nothing. _Will you hand me that sugar, Babe? I hated my ceramics teacher, too. The DMV lines are the worst, right? Bats are actually mammals._ They're in love.

I thought the basic rules of the universe created some sort of safeguard for this situation. I didn't think they let lie after lie accumulate. I thought there was a limit. I thought they were never allowed to reach critical mass.

Apparently, they are, and I'm the one who has to strike the match. There's no use waiting.

"Hey, Sebastian!" I call. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Sebastian pokes his head around the corner. "I'm learning how to make pie crust – can it wait?"

"I really need to talk to you. Alone."

He nods and shuts the door, isolating us. "What's up?"

"I'm not sure how to say it."

"For fuck's sake. I hope you don't wonder how to say that the house is on fire."

"Sebastian, this is really hard. It's about your dad."

His eyes darken. "Okay. Go on."

"I…I saw your dad…last night I saw your dad…in the living room and he…he was…"

"Please don't make this last any longer than it already has."

"Sebastian, I think your dad is gay."

"Are you high?" he asks, but I can hear the fear in his voice. "Don't you know that my dad—"

"I saw him having sex with another man. I'm not lying. I wouldn't lie about this."

For a moment, Sebastian doesn't say anything. Then he nods vacantly. "Okay."

"Are you…?"

"I'll be fine. Thanks for telling me."

He walks out of the room. I put my head in my hands and study the cracks in the floor. Funny. They're just cracks, too.

* * *

"A bag?" I ask, disbelieving. "You're going to roast that turkey in a bag?"

"Yeah, I'm telling you," Brody replies, enthusiastic. "You put it in the bag and it self-bastes. Tommy the turkey is not gonna go dry."

"Ina Garten would never cook a turkey in a bag," I mention softly, turning back to the mashed potatoes and trying not to think about last Thanskgiving. Blaine and I got stuck at the grocery store due to a snowstorm, having volunteered to pick up whip cream at the last second. While we waited out the storm in my car, Finn texted me and tried to describe the texture of the gravy we were missing, the tone of Carole's voice that we would never hear. Blaine and I held hands and ignored the frequent buzz of my phone. We weren't used to each other yet – or, we weren't used to being used to each other. The moment when you know exactly – exactly – what a slight wrinkle of the nose means is a moment of powerful realization, and it can shake your perception of reality to the roots. Somehow, over time, you begin to pick up things in another person you'd never be able to pick up in yourself. It doesn't make sense, and yet, everything makes more sense from that moment forward. All the paradoxes in relationships…you see them differently.

"Well, when Ina comes to cook you Thanksgiving dinner, she can do as she pleases. But our bird is getting bagged."

I dry off my hands and exit the kitchen, giving a perfunctory _mmm_.

"You guys," sighs Rachel, evidently missing my visible-from-space annoyance. "This is so great."

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, it's like our own Big Chill."

"Yeah, but no one breaks out into song," Brody says sternly. "Now, Rachel, get over here and help me butter up Tommy."

"Okay, well, I'm a vegetarian so I can't eat it but I guess I can touch it."

I shoot her a sympathetic glance as she looks down on the bumpy, bloodless meat. My glance becomes less sympathetic when Brody guides her hands over the turkey and gives her come-hither eyes. When he tells her _you really have to show him you love him_ – talking about a turkey for God's sake – I decide to intervene.

"When you two are done using that turkey as a courtship device, would you put it in the oven? It's almost 5:00."

Rachel joins me at the table a few minutes later, lips perched thoughtfully, elbows resting on the white tablecloth. We talk about our childhoods, about Thanksgiving traditions. Isabelle and a gang of cross dressers show up a few minutes later. There's surprising refuge in a group of strange strangers. I watch them wander around the kitchen, examine the honey jar like it means something to them.

There's something about this kitchen that makes me think inescapably of Blaine, more so than any other room in the apartment, and I've never understand why until now. This room makes me think of Blaine because he came here for me and me only. He'd follow me in the middle of the night when I got up to get a glass of water; he'd force himself out of bed too early in the morning to hold me while I waited for the coffee to percolate; he'd sit in here and talk to me when I made dinner**,** even after long days, trying so hard to stay awake and be interesting. He came here just to make me feel loved and cared for, and that was the very deepest, very best part of him. It's why I fell in love with him. He cared so much and gave up so much, just to see me smile at him.

I run my fingers through the coarse fibers of the rug. One mistake, one fight, and I told him I never wanted to see him again. What if I can't take that back?

* * *

It's six o'clock on Thanksgiving. I'm alone in Sebastian's room, listening to dinner from across the house, the soft, swishing chime of silverware, the tight voices. I keep thinking about where they all came from, around the country, months of planning. The plane trip. The purchase of cold medicine. The nannies hired, the emergency number written out , stuck on the fridges with a magnets chosen for strength, not appearance.

It's disturbing.

The wind is loud outside and it's raining. It must be cold, but we don't think about it. We're inside, in a bubble. And the funny thing is, if I was outside, exposed, actually living in reality, I would be able to hide. Here, amongst all the lies, I can't run away from my doubt.

I hear the conversation break. Someone said something slightly unacceptable. The conversation starts up again, unsurely. Then,

"You want to tell me about respect?" shouts Sebastian. "You want to go there? Don't you fucking dare."

A murmur. Of course, a murmur. Sebastian's father never raises his voice.

"You want me to tell them? You want me to tell them what you were too afraid to tell me, tell them what I had to hear from my _friend_? You know! You know he saw you!"

I sit up straight, blood draining out of my head, dizzy.

"Fuck the lies and the fear." He spits the last word. "You put me out on the street. You threw me out."

I start towards the door, but I'm watching an accident I can't stop.

"Yeah, well, here it is! He's gay! He's gay and he's treated me like shit since I was twelve for the same thing! So take my inheritance, take Harvard. They're gone anyway. They were never really there. You built everything on nothing and thought you could get away with it, thought I was stupid enough to miss all the little clues. But you didn't quite make it, did you? Got caught, didn't you?"

My hand slides over the doorknob. I shake my head and mouth _no_, like this might do something. The silence from the dining room is strangling.

"You know what, Dad?" Sebastian says finally. "Fuck you. I'm done."

Suddenly, footsteps crash towards the door. I step back and sit on the bed again, pick up a book and pretend to read. Sebastian bursts in and rips a jacket off his desk chair.

"I'm going," he says tersely.

"Sebastian—"

"Don't say anything. I'm going. I don't think you can stay here anymore."

* * *

Music crashes in my ears, bass and grating. I'm surrounded by color, by light. The apartment is unrecognizable with people. I'm about to leave, but the phone rings.

"Hey, B," I answer wearily.

He falters at first. "Hey. Where are you? It's loud."

"I'm at the apartment. There's a Thanksgiving…event…going on."

"It sounds like it's not going as you planned."

"Our house is full of drag queens. And Brody."

"That sounds really wholesome."

I laugh. "It's not. You should have seen what happened with the turkey."

He laughs too, but it's forced. I didn't expect anything else.

"So, what's going on?" I ask, too soft, too concerned.

"Um…can I talk to you about something? Not about us. It's…something…Kurt, I don't know what to do."

I frown and make my way onto the fire escape. "B? Is everything okay?"

"I don't want you to take this the wrong way. It's about Sebastian."

I sit down on the cold metal, so cold it almost stings. It's snowing and flakes are sticking to my hair. "It's alright."

"I can talk about—?"

"No. I mean I forgive you."

A beat, breathy hesitation. "What?"

"I forgive you. I still…I still love you B. I think I always will."

"Kurt, I—"

"Wait. That's not why I forgive you." I pause. "I forgive you…because all you've ever done is try to make things right. The first day I met you, you were already solving my problems, tea and sympathy. It was beautiful. It's why I fell in love with you." I look out at the dots of light that make up the city; a million strangers, a million different reasons for the lights. "Our relationship, even like this, even broken up, is the only thing that's felt remotely right in the last week. And that makes me think that however dark things might get, I'll never be without a little bit of light from you. It doesn't mean I can't hate you. I did hate you. But I still loved you and that was the only thing making me put one foot in front of the other."

"Kurt…"

"So, will you come back at Christmas?" I ask, voice picking up. "I want to see you on Christmas."

He doesn't answer for a long time. Then he whispers, "I love you."

"I love you too." I smile at my feet. "I love you too, B."

* * *

**Wowsa! It's 3:00 in the morning and I have a con law class in the morning! Empty bag of potato chips, hot chocolate, sleeping random dude, out-of-tune piano – what else but college? : D**

**Hopefully this chapter lived up to your expectations. Hopefully you like Ben. And hopefully you didn't get too frustrated with me going all "deep" and "thoughtful." That's what no sleep will do to you! And, yes, I did write the song! It was my first attempt. Good? Bad? I don't know!**

**There will be one more chapter after this and probably an epilogue. THE PREMIER IS TONIGHT! My eyes are POPPING OUT OF MY HEAD in EXCITEMENT! AHHH GAAAAD!**

xx**Cheers**xx


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